THE STARLINGS INCIDENT

There was something, however, in the appearance of this machine which caused me to regard it more attentively.  While I gazed directly upward at it (for its position was immediately over my own) I fancied that I saw it in motion.  In an instant afterward the fancy was confirmed.  Its sweep was brief, and of course slow.  I watched it for some minutes, somewhat in fear, but more in wonder.  –Edgar Alan Poe, The Pit and the Pendulum.

It was the early 1990’s and I leaned against the doorway of Tina’s office chatting with her when her phone rang.   She answered it and held up her index finger to pause our conversation.  “Yes, this is Tina, uh-huh.   Seattle Department of Transportation (SDOT), yes – the Ballard Bridge?” 

I lazily gazed past Tina towards the Kingdome from our perch in the Smith Tower as she spoke. 

“Yes, starlings?”

The word “starlings” jolted me to attention.  I knew where this conversation was going – and I didn’t like it.  We worked for a small environmental consulting group as wildlife ecologists and often were asked to assist on natural resource management issues.  I had just finished a year’s effort mapping vegetation and rare habitats on 500 square miles of sagebrush landscape east of the Cascades, hopping in and out of a helicopter while collecting data in inaccessible areas.

I enjoyed working in the wilds of open landscapes, not crawling around the urban environment dealing with non-native species; particularly starlings, a nasty little bird.  Asking me to study starlings was like asking a working artist friend to help paint your sister’s dank basement – unartistic, unaesthetic, and grim work. 

Tina hung up the phone, suppressing a smirk.  “Well, you have a new project!”

The following day I trudged off to meet with SDOT with the enthusiasm of a husband spending a Saturday afternoon at Bed, Bath, and Beyond.  The project lead, Marcie, and a couple of the maintenance staff laid out the problem.  Starlings were roosting beneath the Ballard Bridge from late autumn to early spring in increasing numbers, seeking shelter from the cold and rain.  Beneath the bridge, on either side of the moveable spans, lie a series of walkways providing access to the bridge components.  Droppings from the roosting starlings were soiling the walkways making them slippery, unsafe, and unsanitary. 

Bird poop contains a number fungal and bacterial disease vectors that, when dried, can become airborne and represent a legitimate health hazard.  The range of potential diseases reads like a macabre shopping list: histoplasmosis; – a fungal respiratory disease; candidialis – yeast and fungal infection affecting the skin, mouth, and respiratory system; cyprotococcosis – a yeast affecting the pulmonary and nervous system; and salmonellosis – causing intestinal distress. 

In addition, the highly acidic nature of bird droppings can cause damage to bolts and rivets as rainwater washes it into innumerable seams.  There was speculation that the highway bridge collapse in Minneapolis in 2007 was partially due to the large piles of pigeon dung and its corresponding corrosive effects.   In 1998 the Metropolitan Transit Authority of New York settled a $7.67 million lawsuit from a subway passenger who slipped on pigeon poop on the subway stairs and severely injured himself.   SDOT wanted to avoid any such incidents for its workers.

The bridge maintenance staff had tried several creative remedies at the Ballard Bridge to deter the roosting birds including loud noise from speakers and adding extra lights to interrupt their sleep, but to no avail.  Like a hoard of miniature squatters, the birds were undeterred and immovable. The bridge team asked if I could find a solution. 

One of the maintenance staff cheerily advanced another option.  He suggested that after dark, when the birds have settled in, they could tow a barge out onto the canal armed with an industrial strength water pump and fire hose, mix in some soap, and douse the slumbering birds.  Once the stunned birds fell into the 50-degree water, the team could pluck them out with long-handled nets, like skimming leaves out of a swimming pool.  The ultimate repository of the birds hadn’t been figured out. 

I recognized a mutual disdain for starlings but I suggested that this trait might not be shared by the uninformed bird-loving public nor the ASPCA.  While a gratifying exercise, the ensuing media reports would not be in the best public relations interest of SDOT.  Heads nodded in solemn agreement.

Starlings – Sturgis vulgaris – are an adaptable and opportunistic invader equally satisfied foraging in a dumpster, fields, or cattle feedlots.  These birds have no shame nor preferences, which is why they have become ubiquitous across North America.  They were brought to the US in 1865 by Shakespeare enthusiasts wanting to locally introduce all the birds mentioned in the Bard’s plays.  Several releases in New York City’s Central Park led to their slow but steady spread across North America, like watching a drop of oil creep across the surface of a bowl of water.  The scientific species name – vulgaris – is Latin for “common”, though most ecologists would agree the bird is a vulgar one.

In terms of ecological function, starlings are a wrench in the gears.  The birds are aggressive and will overtake nests from native woodpeckers, blue birds, chickadees and any number of tree cavity-dwelling species. 

Once, walking a rural road with a girlfriend, I noticed a starling fly into a hole in a black locust fence post where it was nesting.  I walked over to the post, put my hand into the cavity, and pulled out the bird.  My girlfriend cooed and marveled at the black bird with iridescent feathers and bright yellow bill while stroking its head.  I gently returned the bird to its nest and we went on our way.   If I had been alone, I would have gladly snapped its neck like a carrot stick, letting the nestlings starve. 

Following our meeting, Marcie took me on a tour of the bridge so I could see the starling problem and understand the safety parameters of access below the bridge deck.  We walked from the north side of the bridge on the east sidewalk to below the bridge tender’s tower.  She gave me a key that open the gate that provides access to the stairs to the tower, which sits 30 feet above the bridge deck, allowing a clear view of the ship canal in both directions.  We walked in and she introduced me to Mike, a genteel bridge tender in his 50s, gray hair and beard with an easy smile and disposition.  He obviously enjoyed his job and gave me a quick rundown of his responsibilities and how the bridge operates.

This drawbridge spans the ship canal linking Lake Union and Puget Sound and must open for boats taller than 42 feet.  Most boats use their radio to contact the tower to request an opening as they approach, but sometimes they toot their horn or ring a bell.  The bridge tender first turns on the bridge stoplights along with the rhythmic bell chimes.  Once traffic stops and clears the bridge, the crossing guards are lowered, the center lock on the bridge grate is released, the bridge motor brakes are checked, the motor is engaged, and the bridge opens.  The bridge begins to open about 20 seconds after the crossing guards are lowered. 

The Ballard Bridge is a bascule bridge – bascule is the French word for balance, indicating a key feature of the bridge.  On either side of the canal through which ships pass is a rectangular support structure of concrete.  This “bascule” sits on a small island and is open on top and on the side facing the land, resembling a tall three-sided box.  A large concrete counter weight sweeps under the bridge and through the support frame, balancing the bridge deck and minimizing the strain on the motors.  It is both a simple and elegant solution to move a large piece of steel deck with control and minimal energy.

We moved on to a safety discussion and Mike’s tone grew sharp and precise.   I was never, ever to go below the bridge without coming up to the tower to let him know approximately how long I would be below deck.  Mike paused and waited for my acknowledgement.  I nodded.

His responsibility, he continued, was to “tag” the control board.  He demonstrated by placing a 3 x 7 inch yellow tag on the controls attached to a lever by a string.  This served as a physical reminder that someone was below, just as you might tie a loop on your finger to remind you to pick up milk on the way home – though the seriousness of forgetting and opening the bridge would be significantly greater.   

If Mike needed to open the bridge while I was below he would sound the bellowing bridge horn.  That served as my signal to get to one of the gearhouses, located below the pivot point of each bridge span.  The gearhouse provides access to the bridge motors and other components. Inside there is a phone and I would need to pick it up and let Mike know I was safe.  Only then would he start the bridge opening sequence.  After he closed the bridge the horn would serve as my all-clear signal.  Great – that was simple and straightforward, I thought.  What could go wrong?

Marcie took me for a tour of the underside of the bridge.  We climbed back down the stairs and continued below the bridge deck.  The grated walkways were bird soiled despite the constant cleaning.  It smelled like a mixture of gear oil, vehicle exhaust, and a litter box. We walked into the gearhouse and she pointed out the phone on the wall and we continued the tour. We stepped back out onto the catwalk and it was easy to see why you didn’t want to be here when the bridge opened. 

It appeared a maze of girders intersecting at various angles.  Once the structure started to pivot open it would be like watching a transformer unfold.   If you were unlucky enough to be caught in the articulating movements, it would be impossible to anticipate how it would fold back together.  With the efficiency of a giant garden shear, the compressing kaleidoscope of metal could easily lop off an appendage.

We turned right and walked to one of the four columns of the bascule that extended down to the island.  We clambered through the bridge girders to reach to top of the column.  Clinging to a girder, we made a long step to a series of steel rungs in the column that allowed access to the dirt floor, 90 feet below.  We clambered down, walked to the middle of the island and gazed upward.  Marcie pointed out the favorite roosting areas of the birds but my attention was elsewhere. 

While I had an abstract idea of how the bridge worked, now things were concrete.  As in a block of concrete 12 x 16 x 44 ft. long, weighing 678 tons that was above us and served as the bridge counter weight.  The ingenuity of the design was apparent – as was our comparatively small size and vulnerable position.  When the bridge opened, the counter weight would swing down filling the space between the sides of the bascule with only 9 inches of clearance, coming to a stop at the large rubber bumpers at the base of the opposite wall.   This could be a very unfriendly place.

I snapped to and commiserated with Marcie.  There were innumerable nooks and crannies for a small bird to safely nuzzle with thousands of his creepy friends for the evening along the girders and on the concrete structure, sheltered from the rain and the wind.  We settled on finding a way to exclude the pesky birds from their favorite perches.  I would research the issue and get back to the bridge folks.

Many tactics exist for dealing with unwanted birds.  Strips of metal spikes prevent perching, low-level electrical tracks provide constant annoying shocks, sticky plates of citronella and peppermint oil make for unappealing landings, and one of my favorites – “Hotfoot” a pepper-based jell that is absorbed through the feet.   We settled on the most practical and efficient measures, using plastic netting often used to protect fruit crops to eliminate bird access.

I would survey beneath the bridge at dusk to count the number of roosting birds before we tested a solution.  Starlings do not directly fly to an evening roost location but will first “stage” in the area, perching on anything in sight of the bridge.   After a bit they swoop in groups to their evening’s rest spot.  It was necessary to go below the bridge to observe how the birds were using the bridge.  It was not possible to figure that out from land.

The next evening, I climbed to the tower and let Mike know I was going below.  He tagged the controls and I went below the bridge and climbed down into the bascule.  By systematically counting the roosting birds in a defined section and then estimating the remainder, I determined that over 2,000 birds were using just this small portion of the bridge.  The local Audubon Society annual Christmas bird counts indicated that up to 10,000 starlings would roost over the entire structure, a dark mobile hoard to rival the Mongols.  I completed several visits to ensure consistency in the bird counts and then arranged with the maintenance folks to place netting on one half of the roosting areas on the south side of the bridge to test its efficacy.  

A week later I watched the installation as the bridge teamed floated a wheeled, hydraulic lift via barge to the open side of the bascule and two workers enclosed half the underside of the bridge with the netting.  We would monitor it for a few days but it looked like this was an easy and cost-effective solution. 

“This will take care of the little bastards, eh?” yelled one of the workers to his cohorts.  They heartily snorted in agreement.

It was mid-November as I walked up the bridge sidewalk from the north side to conduct my last starling survey.  Oh joy, oh joy, oh joy.  I was ready to move on to other work.  I noticed a handful of starlings staging on the bridge streetlights.  Against the battleship gray of the Seattle dusk more perched on the edge of buildings, the rigging of fishing boats, and street signs like small black dollops on the rim of a melancholy cake.

I climbed up to the tower and walked in.  Instead of Mike there was a young couple who started and took a step away from each other when I opened the door, as if I interrupted something.  Odd, I thought. The young woman was a substitute bridge tender who looked to be in her late 20s.  She had her boyfriend with her, which I doubted was within tower safety protocols. 

I explained who I was and she acknowledged that she knew I might be stopping by.  I asked her to put a tag on the controls and let her know I was going beneath the bridge for a half hour or so.  I did not wait and watch for her compliance, but I soon wished I had.

I climbed below the bridge and down the side of the bascule to the base and watched the dark vapors of starlings curl around the edge of the bridge seeking their sleep nooks.  After about 25 minutes I was finishing up my notes when I heard a bell ringing at regular intervals and glanced out to see a tall-masted sailboat paused about 50 yards from the west side of the bridge.  That’s funny I thought, why is he ringing his bell, is his radio not working?

Instantly, with the clarity of snapping in a last puzzle piece, the situation was clear.  That wasn’t the boat – it was the bridge crossing guards lowering.  The bridge was going to open!  She forgot about me!!  

I looked up at the counterweight poised above me.  I was in the pit and a pendulum the size of my house was soon to arc in my direction.

As fast as thumbing a deck of cards I considered my options.

Stand on the open edge of the bascule and watch the counterweight slide past my face and if there was no room, jump into the canal? – NO! 

Splay myself against the opposite wall and watch the counterweight sweep to my toes? – NO! 

Wedge myself into the small recess in the side of the column and watch the block pass, hoping there was enough room for me? – NO!  

Run for the gearhouse?

I bolted across the dirt and leapt at the ladder latching on to the rung at 8 ft and climbed the 90 foot column like a frantic spider.  I swam though the girders, sprinted down the straightaway, turned left, and then right to the stairs of the gearhouse, swung open the door and put my right foot on the threshold just as the bridge groaned and pivoted away from my left foot. 

I slowly lowered myself to the floor.   I felt like a quart-sized syringe of adrenaline had been pushed into my bloodstream.  My heartrate pegged the meter, I was drenched in sweat, my body shook.  I felt nauseous and got on my hands and knees and dry heaved.  I sat down with my back against the wall.  The whirr of the motors slowed and then stopped as the bridge decks pointed skyward.  It was quiet, no traffic.  I could hear that dark chorus of birds murmuring.

I thought “How embarrassing would that have been”?  The mornings news report would have read “Wildlife Biologist Dies – Mangled Beneath Ballard Bridge While Studying Starlings”.

A bear mauling, drowned in a river, swept by an avalanche, or even crushed by a random old growth tree fall – those were acceptable fates for a wildlife ecologist – but starlings?  If I instead had merely been injured there would be the inventible dinner party where, head lowered, I’d have to explain how my arm became severed below the elbow. 

The motors hummed to life and the gears, like some medieval rack, spun the bridge deck back in place.  The center span lock clunked, the crossing guards were raised, and the familiar and reassuring hum of traffic over the grated bridge span renewed.  I gathered myself up and wearily walked along the catwalk and up the stairs to the surface.  I felt whipped, grimy, and sweaty.  My legs tingled.  I slowly continued up the stairs gripping the railing for support and opened the door to the tower.  As I did the young woman swung around and stared. 

I must have been a sight, sweat plastered hair and a wild look.  With a bolt of recognition, she gasped and put her hand over her mouth.  “I forgot about you!”  she wailed. 

I let that hang in the air for about five beats.  And calmly replied – “You sure as hell did.” 

I walked out and slammed the door behind me.

I trudged back north off the bridge, vaguely aware of the traffic, the cool air, and a slight breeze.  It was all stunningly normal, as if you instantly sat up in bed breaking from a nightmare, pausing to wonder at the familiar surroundings.  I took a right at the corner and went into Mikes Tavern where the cigarette smoke plume was at eye level.  I sat at the bar and asked for a PBR and a bowl of regular chili – onions, jalapenos, and cheese. 

The bartender got my beer and soon plopped a bowl of chili in front of me.  “How’s it going?” he asked. 

I chuckled and said “better now”. 

“Yep” he replied over his shoulder as he slid down to greet another customer “…a day’s always better when it ends with beer and chili”.

When I got into the office the next morning I had three voicemails from Marcie.  I returned her call and she profusely apologized.  At this point, what were we going to do?  My work was complete and like a bad first date we separated with mutual satisfaction.   The netting served its purpose and the starlings could not access their night perches above the walkways.  I moved onto more enjoyable work with another reason for hating starlings.

Over the ensuing decades I’ve commuted by bike to and from downtown and often would take a longer loop home that led me over the Ballard Bridge.   I noticed that the number of starlings swarming around the bridge appeared less than I remembered, which likely was due to the breeding peregrine falcons that have since taken up residence at the bridge.  Swift birds of prey, the falcons snatch starlings out of the sky like floating dumplings.  Now there’s a noble bird.