Protecting Plovers 101: Education for Everyone is a Day at the Beach

by Andrew Colvin
Habitat, Summer 2003

Hunting and egg-collecting nearly wiped out a healthy piping plover population in Maine at the turn of last century. Federal law offered migratory birds some
protection in 1918, but before Maine's piping plover population had a chance to significantly recover, it declined again after World War II as seawalls, piers, parking lots, and summer homes gobbled up habitat.

Indeed, the birds have done the best they can, building their nests in less-than-ideal spots and tolerating all sorts of human pressure, but there is limited plover habitat left in Maine. The birds need intertidal mud flats and tidal rivers for feeding, dune grass for resting and hiding, and intact dune systems with frontal dunes and sandy spits for nesting. Only a few such places are left along Maine's coast.

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It's a warm, sunny morning in June at Scarborough Beach by Prout's Neck—the perfect beach day—but the group of middle-schoolers standing in the parking lot isn't here to throw Frisbees and bodysurf.

They're here to learn about piping plovers. The seventh graders from King Middle School in Portland have come to spend the morning with Maine Audubon seasonal plover biologists John Pierce and Kate Williams, cleaning the beach, hearing about the birds' natural history, and searching for the little birds near their nests.

Pierce pulls a decoy of a piping plover from a box and asks the kids what they notice about the bird.

"It's pretty small."

"It has a black ring around its neck."

"It's the color of sand."

"What do you think it means if a chick is the color of sand?" John asks.

"It might get stepped on."

"That's right. And the chick's only defense is to turn around and hunker down."

"Don't kites sometimes scare the birds?" The kids, who have been in an "expeditionary learning" unit on endangered species and ecology, bring up plover facts before Pierce has a chance to get to them.

"They do. The birds think kites are hawks and they leave the nest, which isn't good for the eggs."

As the exchange continues, the natural history of piping plovers unfolds: males make numerous nests—or scrapes—for the female to choose from; the birds lay four well-camouflaged eggs; the chicks hatch about 28 days later and within hours are helping themselves to marine worms, fly larvae, crustaceans, and mollusks.

It may be a sunny day at the beach during the last week of school, but these kids are totally focused on the life of a tiny endangered bird.

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"You just have to see one of those chicks and you're hooked."

Wells resident Paula Mamone is smitten with plovers. In 2000, she was hired by the town of Wells to coordinate volunteer monitors for the birds. The following year she was hired by both Wells and Ogunquit, and since then has spent every summer rounding up dozens of people to walk the beaches, monitor plover nests, and act as spotters when heavy beach-cleaning machines rumble through plover habitat.

"The most wonderful thing about this project is that there are so many people working on it," says Jody Jones, Maine Audubon wildlife ecologist and recovery coordinator of the piping plover project, which Maine Audubon began in 1981 in response to the birds' once-again declining population (see timeline at right). As just one example, she cites the residents, law enforcement agents, and even real estate agents of Biddeford's Hills Beach, who last year banded together and came up with
remarkably creative ways to protect a nest that produced the first plover chick at the beach in possibly over 100 years.

Mamone says some people think humans are the worse predators of plovers, but she chooses to see people as protectors. Thanks to her inspiration and coordination, in 2002 nearly 100 of those people logged more than 1,000 hours to help protect the diminutive shorebirds in Wells and Ogunquit.

Beachfront landowners are some of the most commendable people involved with the project, Mamone believes, allowing their land to be roped off and designated for the birds even though they get little in return. "They're the ones who don't get their beach cleaned right away, who can't even sit wherever they want to. Yet they're so willing."

The one thing beachfront landowners do get in return is a heightened connection with the natural world around them. Roscoe and Mary Milot, who have had a house on Wells beach since 1981, say that thanks to the plover project they have become increasingly more aware of the wildlife around them. "Ten years ago we didn't even know what a piping plover was, but we quickly found out when all the management started on the beach," says Roscoe Milot. "Now we look forward to the birds' return every year. And since we became interested in the plovers, we are also much more aware of the other shorebirds that stop on the beach to feed."

Jones says this progression is not uncommon. "Once people see the value in protecting plovers and their habitat, they're a lot more likely to extend that appreciation to all wildlife and wildlife habitat."

Mamone tells of a retired neighbor who has lived on Drakes Island in Wells for years but was never involved with the project. After spotting an ad on the local cable station, he came to the annual spring meeting of plover volunteers. "One week and he was hooked," says Mamone. "Now he comes to my house three or four times a day [to report on the plovers], and e-mails me, too. Volunteers become so dedicated. It's amazing to see it happen."

By virtue of caring so much about the birds, Mamone says her volunteers become diligent informal educators. "'What is that?' people often ask of the fuzzy critters scurrying around the beach. 'Is it a bug?'"

Walking the beaches for hours every week during the summer, the volunteers have plenty of opportunity to spread the word about plovers.

Volunteers aren't the only ones who become educators. Even the beaches' lifeguards, trash collectors, and parking lot attendants attend training sessions with Maine Audubon biologists to learn about the plovers and what the birds need from humans to stay safe. "They're a great source for education," Mamone says.

The impact plovers make on people reaches beyond the beach and even the birds themselves. "I'm not a biologist," Mamone says, "but I'll get calls in the spring and fall and even the winter from someone who's seen a fox in the street and wants to know if it's safe, or someone who wants to know what I think about deer thinning. People involved in the project become interested in other aspects of conservation."

"When you educate people," Mamone says, "they become a soldier in the battle to protect endangered species. There's never enough education. You need more and more."

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"So what we're going to do," Pierce begins, passing out large garbage bags and rubber gloves, "is head up the beach and pick up as much trash as we possibly can. How do you think that will help the plovers?"

The group ticks off numerous ways garbage could harm the birds: gum could get caught in their stomachs, fishing line could get tangled around their tiny legs, discarded food could attract crows and other
predators.

The kids start up the beach, laughing and joking about their bright purple gloves but also picking up every piece of trash they spot. They eye each other's bags to see who's getting more.

The group pauses up near the dune along a section of beach around which Williams and Pierce have stretched orange twine. Earlier in the season the two biologists found scrapes and tiny tracks in the area—sure signs the plovers intended to nest there.

Williams steps carefully over the twine and peers into the dune grass where she found a nest with eggs earlier in the month. The nest is empty.

"Did they hatch, or get predated?" Pierce asks her as she steps back over the twine. "Predated," Williams says quietly.

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It's a tenuous existence these little birds have, laying their eggs in scrapes in the sand, wedged between dunes and the high-tide line with nests like a bullseye for land and aerial predators.

And then there's the threat called humans: thousands of them walking by all summer, letting their dogs roam free, setting off fireworks dangerously close—and building houses right over top of prime habitat.

Having dealt with human threats for more than 100 years, one might think the birds have gotten accustomed it: hunting and egg-collecting nearly wiped out a healthy population in Maine at the turn of last century, which, before it had a chance to recover, declined again after World War II as seawalls, piers, parking lots, and summer homes gobbled up habitat.

Indeed, the birds have done the best they can, building their nests in less-than-ideal spots and tolerating all sorts of human pressure, but there is only so much plover habitat left in Maine. The birds need
intertidal mud flats and tidal rivers for feeding, dune grass for resting and hiding, and intact dune systems with frontal dunes and sandy spits for nesting. With only a few such places left along Maine's coast,
most of which are crowded by summer residents and visitors, plover numbers will probably never return to what they were more than 100 years ago.

But, as volunteer coordinator Mamone affirms, the biggest source of threat to Maine's piping plovers is also the biggest source of hope.

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Further down the beach, a sign and a nest exclosure come into view. Pierce slows, scanning the sand. A few moments later an adult plover stirs, its black neckband becoming visible, and then behind it, exactly as Pierce had described them, several cotton balls on toothpicks start scurrying around. Before the group are four plover chicks no more than three days old.

A round of squeals comes from the girls. "That's cool," says the skeptical boy who had been hanging back from the group. Another student creeps towards the birds with his digital camera.

After he's taken a couple of shots, everyone crowds around. "Lemme see, lemme see."

Walking back up the beach dragging heavy bags of trash behind them, the kids are energized. The boy with the camera chatters excitedly about the four pictures he got. His only lament is that he couldn't get close enough. "I wish there was some way to show them we're not going to hurt them."

Pierce shares his thoughts on the significance of what he and Williams are doing. "The more people we bring out here, the more is known about the birds that can be passed along."

He says one of the best parts of his job is communicating with all sorts of people, from kids to senior citizens. "This job combines research, conservation, politics—and education. Environmental education is the cornerstone of any conservation program."

Fortunately, like the volunteers Mamone speaks of, almost every visit Pierce and Williams make to the beach is an opportunity for education. In addition to leading school trips and training sessions for everyone from police to lifeguards to parking lot attendants, they frequently approach individuals with unleashed dogs or close-flying kites to tell them about the endangered birds.

Sometimes the response is less than positive, but more often than not people thank Williams and Pierce, saying they didn't know there were endangered species on the beach.

"Ideally," Pierce says, "these people will go back and tell their friends and family that there's endangered species on the beach." He adds, more than once, "The take-home message is that we need to protect wildlife."

Pierce's message seems to be getting through.

Walking back to the parking lot, asked why it's important to take care of endangered species, one of the seventh graders answers simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world: "Because if we don't take care of them we'll never see them again."