Running An Errand With A Winter Resident, The Punk Of The Sea

How to twitch Grandi’s White-winged Scoter

With only a few exceptions, Grandi’s White-winged Scoter has returned to Reykjavík every winter since 2014. Known as Kolönd in Icelandic, the scoter is a North American diving duck that normally breeds from Western Canada north to Alaska, wintering along the southern coasts of the continent.

Males are uniformly black but sport two crisp white details: a stylish comma trailing the eye and white flight feathers visible as a streak when the wings are folded. Females are more brown than black and lack the white accents. The male’s bicoloured bill adds a splash of colour to an otherwise monochrome look — a level of restrained edge that would make even the most dedicated punks jealous.

Visitor, resident, or early adopter

Rumour among local eiders has it that the scoter was first spotted by Kópavogur-based birder Edward Rickson in Seltjarnarnes a few years before his Grandi debut. Since then, he seems to have chosen Grandi as his permanent winter residence.

Rumour also has it that he might be more of an acclimated expat than strictly a winter visitor, as there have been reports of a male white-winged scoter as far north as Ísafjörður during recent summers. Perhaps our bird got an early sense of where things were heading back home — and took matters into his own wings. At this point, citizenship doesn’t feel like too much to ask — he probably knows Iceland better than most of us.

Before you leave home

All birding adventures start at home. Check the weather and aim for a bright, calm window. Pack warm clothes and a snack — but avoid sweet rewards that might jinx the trip. Check the bus schedule if you don’t have a car.
“I’ll be on site at noon on the first Sunday after this issue is published, happy to help guide anyone who wants to meet Grandi’s most reliable winter resident.”

Bring binoculars if you can. Borrow them from a friend, rent a pair, or, if rent has eaten all your funds, resort to holding your hands up to your face like makeshift binoculars. It won’t help much, but it will demonstrate devotion.

Finally, learn the bird’s appearance and habits before heading out. As a trick up your sleeve — or pocket — cut out the instruction map accompanying this article and bring it along. (Apologies in advance to the opposing article.)

Travelling to Grandi just for a bird can feel a bit hardcore, and that’s fair. The solution is errands. Recycle those aluminium cans before the search. Stock the freezer with discounted groceries afterwards. Experience the famously psychedelic car wash or get that Field Guide about birds at Bókabúðin. Try FlyOver Iceland — after meeting someone who does it daily.

Starting the search

Begin at the seafront by Ánanaust (or Sorpa) (Á), the westernmost point of the walk, and close to bus stops (B). From here, scan the inner bay for rafts of common eiders. At this time of year, eider males are mostly white and females mostly brown.

Our familiar scoter will likely be among them, standing out as a darker, slightly larger bird with the neat white details described above. Remember: eiders and scoters are diving ducks. The bird you’re watching will disappear. This is frustrating and fascinating in equal measure. Be patient — it will resurface.

Strength in numbers

If he’s not at Ánanaust, continue east along the paved seafront, stopping regularly to scan (>) nearby flocks. Along the way you might see Long-tailed Ducks, Great Cormorants, Razorbills, or Harlequin Ducks.

You may also encounter other birders. Shared body language — scanning, pacing, confused expressions after sudden dives — creates an instant bond. Build up the courage and ask to join forces as the search continues. Start at opposite ends, exchange phone numbers, maybe develop a lifelong friendship. Teamwork helps, in birding and in life.

When you reach Örfirisey

Reaching the white silos of Örfirisey (Ö) marks a familiar birder’s crossroads. Maybe you’re ecstatic. Maybe you’re cold, snackless, and annoyed that the bird you celebrated was a female common eider.

Either way, something has happened. Whether you dipped, listed, or are muttering about Á’s and Ö’s (and Ó’s, the sound eiders make), you’re officially a twitcher now.

And if you’d like company: I’ll be on site at noon on the first Sunday after this issue is published, happy to help guide anyone who wants to meet Grandi’s most reliable winter resident.