Seaside sparrow. Photo by Gerry Ellis

 
Oil oozing out of the wrack line in the marsh in Bay Jimmy, a choking stench of asphalt wafting out of the marsh. Tar balls littering the beach on East Grand Terre Island. A tiny fiddler crab, black with oil, scuttling through the black goo oozing up through the marsh sediment. A smaller-still hermit crab, shell gleaming white, picking its careful way over oiled mud. A Seaside Sparrow, singing to protect its small, dense, marshy territory. A Magnificent Frigatebird, body broken and oiled, eyes frightened and wary, cowering in a plastic cage on a boat, headed for the wildlife rehabilitation center.
 
When I got on a boat this morning, I did not realize how much the trip would transport me back in time one year.

An oiled Sanderling that died en route to rehab. Timmy Vincent/Audubon

Last week at a Deepwater Horizon response press conference, Federal On-Scene Coordinator Adm. Paul Zukunft told National Public Radio’s Debbie Elliott, “We did have you know certainly a loss of wildlife, but in comparison we had about 2300 dead oil birds and Exxon Valdez, that number was nearly 225,000. So again, the impact could have been much worse than what it was.” But comparing the count of dead birds that were collected with oil visible on their feathers from the Deepwater Horizon spill to the estimated toll from the Exxon Valdez oil spill is like comparing, well, apples to zebras.

A young pelican flies after being released. Melanie Driscoll/Audubon

Last Friday, I watched the Louisiana Department of Wildlife and Fisheries release 45 rehabilitated young Brown Pelicans onto an island in southwest Louisiana. Yes, Louisiana. Now that the gushing well has been stopped, and oil has still not hit Cameron Parish, they felt that was a safe enough release site. It is right that the birds are free. It is good that they have been captured, cleaned, and rehabilitated. But they face such an uncertain future.

Brown Pelicans rest near the edge of a breeding colony in Louisiana. Some chicks are lightly oiled. Melanie Driscoll/Audubon

As Tropical Storm Bonnie approaches, and fledgling pelicans and wading birds move out from the inner parts of colonies onto the oiled habitats at island edges in preparation of fledging, I am filled with dread. In her path are birds with thousands of young growing, wading, swimming, exercising their tender wings, and moving at their natural pace toward independence and the relative safety of flight.

Black Skimmers interact in mid-air. Melanie Driscoll/Audubon

What does an Audubon bird conservation director do during an oil spill? Follow Melanie Driscoll through Louisiana this week to find out.

Tuesday, 4:00 p.m. I talked with Natalie Snider, one of our partners at Coalition to Restore Coastal Louisiana. We discussed creating oyster reef islands.  The Black Skimmers would love them – a place to loaf, court, and raise their young. We also talked about project costs – it could take anywhere from $100,000 to $4 million to create an island. Paul Kemp (vice president of the Louisiana Coastal Initiative) and I have some funding ideas. Scientists are on board and excited.

Oiled Royal Tern chicks (brown). Melanie Driscoll/Audubon

These decisions are the decisions no one should have to make.  Do we sacrifice individuals to help protect the health of the species?  Do we abandon oiled young so that some unoiled young may have more days to grow up and hopefully fledge?  Humans play this waiting game, often helpless observers, occasionally heroic rescuers, knowing that these are the decisions they cannot make well.  We must all live with those decisions, those images burned into our minds.  We must witness the suffering of the individuals, knowing that even the best decisions may not prevent more suffering of the species.