2005年我还没有相机，我用D200+300MM F4+1.4X,从没有比较也不知道快慢，举着拍惯了，没试过架子。

是的，那边你可以跟鸟近距离接触。。哈。。。那天有很多鸟人在那里的，基本上每个周末你都会看到几门大炮在那边。。。可惜我2005年的照片由于硬盘坏了，全部丢失，不然可以发上。。。

仓促翻译，日后再修改。

The Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge, a unit of Gateway National Recreation Area, is one of the most important urban wildlife refuges in the United States. Encompassing 9,155 acres, it is comprised of diverse habitats, including salt marsh, upland field and woods, several fresh and brackish water ponds and an open expanse of bay and islands- all located within the limits of New York City. The Wildlife refuge is nationally and internationally renowned as a prime birding spot where thousands of water, land and shorebirds stop during migration. More than 325 species have been recorded here during the last 25 years.
属于盖特韦国家误乐区的牙买加湾野生动物保护区是美国城市野生动物保护区最重要的一部分。面积9155英亩，保护区由不同的生态区组成，包括盐碱湿地、丘陵地和森林、几个新鲜的和有盐味的水塘和一个开放的和宽阔的海湾和岛屿，所以这些都座落在一个有限的纽约市内。野生保护区是全国性和国际性的，主要以上千的水鸟，陆鸟和岸鸟的停留和迁移而著名。在过去25年里在这里也记录了325种物种之多。

Each season has different possibilities for natural phenomena. The Spring brings warbler and songbird migrants. A special treat is the peculiar courting display of the breeding American Woodcocks during the evening in late March. Starting mid-August is the migration of southerly bound shorebirds. The Fall is noted for migrating hawks and raptors, songbirds and warblers and great numbers of waterfowl. Also to be noted are the migrating Monarch Butterflies and dragonflies.
每一个季节都有可能发生不同的自然现象，春天会有莺和燕雀的移居。一个特殊的款待就是在三月下旬的傍晚美国血统的鸟鹬的罕见的求爱场面。八月中旬开始就是从南方启程的岸鸟的移居。秋天以迁徙鹰和猛禽、燕雀和莺和大量的水禽而著名，也以君主蝴蝶和蜻蜓著名。

Quite a number of birds breed either within the area of the trails or on the islands that are in the bay. Some of those species on the upland and salt marsh areas are Canada Geese, Yellow, Common Yellowthroat and Redstart warblers, Osprey, Oystercatchers, Willets, and Tree Sparrow. Less visible breeding areas hold nest sites for Black Crowned and Yellow Crowned Night Herons, Great Blue Heron, Great and Snowy Egret, Glossy Ibis and Barn Owl. This has been abetted by an active nest box placement program and the protection of prime nesting areas during breeding season.
相当数量的鸟类的繁衍要么在这个海湾的小径区内，要么在岛屿上。生活在丘陵和盐沼区的物种中的野生物种是加拿大大雁、黄喉地莺、红尾鸲、鹗、蛎鹬、鹞和树雀。黑冠和黄冠夜鹭、蓝鹭、大白鹭、雪鹭、朱鹭和猫头鹰的很难见到他们的巢，在这里是可以看到的。这里安置了许多筑巢的盒子，在喂养季节对主要巢区实行保护。

The refuge is also productive for the now rare native flora and fauna of the coastal areas. Due to introduction of native species and creation of conducive habitat, Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge is the home to breeding reptiles and amphibians, small mammals and butterflies.
保护区内也有丰富的海岸区目前比较罕见的本土植物和动物。由于引入了一些本土物种和建立了益于居住的生物环境，牙买加湾野生动物保护区已经成为饲养爬虫动物、两栖动物、小哺乳动物和蝴蝶的家园。

There are a number of sections of the refuge that are particularly good for birders and naturalists. You will find in this description specific information about two of the best: the East and West Ponds.
保护区有许多部分组成，特殊吸引猎鸟者和自然爱好者。在这里的描述中你将发现对东池塘和西池塘这两个最好的两个地方的一些特殊信息。

Captain Duke Reilly responds to our rain-sodden urban explorer's SOS.  
(Photo: Randy Harris)

A forager's bounty—a bowl, a honey jar, and a fishing lure—turns a tarp into a home.  
(Photo: Randy Harris)

Illustration by John Burgoyne

Marooned on Ruffle Bar, in Jamaica Bay, with only a survival kit and water.  
(Photo: Randy Harris)

这是我读的一个在Jamaica Bay发生的故事，很有意思。

Castaway!

In which our man voyages to a deserted Brooklyn isle, battles the elements—and loses.

By Grant Stoddard Published Jun 25, 2007

CHAPTER ONE

Our Hero Sets Foot in His Own Private Eden, Eager to Test His Mind, Body, and Spirit.
The idea first takes my fancy on a 747 stuck in a holding pattern over JFK. Looking down from my miserable prison in the sky, I notice what I never do on a map: islands. Little egg-shaped ones in the East River, specks of green just past the harbor’s mouth; there are even some surprisingly sizable blobs right next to the airport itself. What if, I think to myself in a high-altitude fever dream, the plane crashed and no one noticed? What if I were a modern-day castaway, marooned on an island? Could I survive in the wilderness? Did I have what it took? On my favorite TV show, Man Vs. Wild, I’ve seen Bear Grylls make insect repellent on the hoof, squeeze drinking water from elephant poop, and set up a homey little camp with little more than the clothes on his back. Surely, I think, I could hold my own for a couple of days in the wilds of New York.
It’s just a silly notion until I’m introduced to Duke Riley. Duke’s an artist and the owner of a tattoo shop, and, I’ll admit, the coolest guy I’ve ever met. Long before I came to know him, I’d read about him. He’s the guy who, during the 2004 Republican National Convention, “liberated” Belmont Island—a scrap of rock in the East River, directly across from the U.N.—by rowing out and hoisting a 21-foot-long flag of his own design. Of course, I have to tell him about my Robinson Crusoe fantasy.
“Aw, man, that’s an awesome project,” he says. “I’m actually kinda jealous. You’re gonna have a blast.”
In his charming Massachusetts brogue, Duke walks me through the logistics. It turns out he has spent the night on most of the islands I had spotted from the plane. Mulling over my options, he suggests Ruffle Bar, a 143-acre sandbar in Jamaica Bay that had been an oyster outpost until the mid-twentieth century. The last known resident, a subsistence fisherman, left around 1944. Duke seems sure that I could live off the land, too, as fish and seafood abound in the surrounding waters. He then very kindly offers to row me to the island. Within 48 hours we are launching from Floyd Bennett Field and heading across the bay. To make it “real,” I’m marooning myself with only the bare minimum: little more than the clothes on my back, a knife, a tarp, and some matches. It’s all happening so fast that I don’t even have time to feel unprepared. But that’s the point, right?
The morning of the launch is hot and muggy, but the wind starts to pick up and cool things down as we cast off from the shore in Duke’s inflatable dinghy. Broadsided by the increasing gusts, we take the better part of an hour to get the wilting rubber boat across the choppy gunmetal waves. Unbeknownst to him, Duke is testing my heterosexuality to its very limits. He’s a spry, charismatic, Mad Max–era Mel Gibson doppelgänger, with seadog tattoos and a mischievous glint in his eyes. My scrawny frame and fey affect make me slightly embarrassed to be in such rugged and self-assured company. I make a conscious effort to butch up, pretending not to be bothered that I’m sitting in an inch of chilly seawater that’s filled the bottom of Riley’s overloaded vessel. Duke hands me an oar, and we paddle the final 150 yards canoe style, enabling me to feel at least a little useful.
True to his word, the island teems with delectables: a collection of birds’ eggs; expansive beds of pearlescent, silver-blue mussels; fields of perfectly edible seaweed; and, most surprising, dozens of coconuts strewn about the shoreline. Not quite a wayward polar bear, but still, their presence leaves me perplexed. “I think it’s from a Hindu festival,” he says as we pull his little boat farther up the beach. “They put coconuts and other fruit in the water, and they eventually wash up over here. Looks like you’ll have a lot of options for dinner.”
A considerable amount of less exotic flotsam has wound up on the island. Several skiffs in varying states of disrepair, about a dozen living-room chairs, a bunch of plastic buckets, and a disgusting amount of city trash. Among it all, I find a decent metal bowl that I could use to steam mussels, half of a fishing pole, a fishing lure, and a jar of Golden Blossom honey with the lid rusted on solid.
“That honey will still be okay to eat,” says Duke.
I recently learned that honey excavated from the Egyptian pyramids is still okay to eat.
“But if you feel like it, you could probably eat some of those.” Duke is pointing to what look like a lost shipment of Wehrmacht helmets on the sand—horseshoe crabs, possibly the most vile and demonic-looking creatures I’ve ever had the misfortune of laying eyes on. There are several supine specimens in various states of wildly odoriferous decomposition, but that doesn’t dissuade the gulls from hungrily picking them apart. Duke strides over to a live and particularly massive helmet and deftly flips it over with his foot. The crab’s molasses-colored legs flitter like jazz hands, its underside oozing an oily blue gel.
“They’re edible,” he says. “I’d definitely cook them first, though.”
It takes about 45 minutes to walk around the whole island and arrive back at the dinghy. I unload my meager supplies, accept Duke’s good wishes, and excitedly push him out into the bay. “See you soon, man,” he calls out. “You’ll have a blast!”
My first plan of action is to build a shelter. For guidance in that regard and in all other outdoorsy matters, I’ve brought a copy of Bradford Angier’s How to Stay Alive in the Woods. For inspiration, Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe. After constructing a home, I plan to gather firewood and throw some lines in the water using the abundant mussels as bait. As I survey the landscape, it starts to rain, and I’m forced to throw something up in a hurry simply to keep dry. The theme song to Gilligan’s Island is stuck in my head and given that I am all alone, there’s nothing to dislodge it. A three-hour tour.

CHAPTER TWO

Our Intrepid Castaway Runs Afoul of Inclement Weather, Falls Into a Watery Pit, and Fears for His Safety.
I map out the island in my mind, naming each area after its most prevalent physical feature. Goose Crap Bay, Stinky Harbor, Nonbiodegradable Heights, etc. A stone’s throw inland, I find what I think is a decent location: a collection of three or four trees rooted in the sandy soil a few yards beyond the high-tide line. One of the trees forks at about waist height. I find a similarly forked branch and sink it into the ground about six feet away, then sit the longest, straightest branch I can find in the two Y-shaped nooks. I then take several branches and set them diagonally from one side of the horizontal branch to the ground. All pretty slapdash, really, but I have to hurry. I throw my tarp over the whole thing and use smaller sticks like tent pegs to anchor it to the ground. Finally, I gather all the leafy limbs I’ve hacked or snapped off the boughs and throw them atop the structure to camouflage my spot from the harbor Five-O who have been circling the bay in a helicopter since we launched. (The legality of my being on this island is unclear, so I plan to keep a low profile and hope for the best.) I scramble inside just before the first crack of thunder and the driving rain it announces. My new dwelling is cozy enough, though too small to do anything other than lie down in. I rather ingeniously fill an old plastic bag with sand as a pillow, then take out my notepad and sketch designs for the more impressive home I will build as soon as the rain lets off. I feel a burning desire to impress Duke with my travails over the next few days and imagine his nodding approval at the structures, traps, and gizmos that I shall fashion from nature.
One hour becomes two, two becomes four, and the rain is truly torrential. Friends had suggested that I postpone my adventure, as the tail end of Tropical Depression Barry was projected to roll through the metro area during my stay. I certainly would have stayed home for a Hurricane Xerxes, but Tropical Depression Barry sounded utterly benign. Duke hadn’t seemed at all concerned about the stormy forecast, and I certainly hadn’t wanted to bring it up. I figure that it is sure to blow itself out sooner or later.
The sound of heavy rain on the tarp is like just-immersed Rice Krispies amplified through a Marshall stack. Rainwater pools on the sections of the tarp that aren’t pulled taut, and I realize that water, the one thing I’d brought in abundance, is the one thing I absolutely do not need. What I should have brought instead is a slicker, some warm socks, and some decent boots. The sound of the rain is comforting at first, but six hours in and with no sign of letting up, Barry loses his charm. The Gil Hodges Memorial Bridge, which connects the Rockaways with Brooklyn, is now completely obscured by the thick, low rain clouds. If it wasn’t for the roar of the descending airliners overhead, I could be fooled into thinking that I am marooned in the middle of the Atlantic. I read Robinson Crusoe, keeping one eye out for a break in the weather that isn’t forthcoming. The rumbling in my belly soon eclipses the rumbling in the clouds, and I decide that although I’ll get soaked through in the process, I will have to find food and search for some dry wood. I gird my loins by imagining a romantic scene, an hour hence, in which I sit with a full belly, reading Defoe, dried and warmed by a simple, cheerful campfire.
I make a beeline for the mussel beds, but since our landing, the tide has come in, transforming the landscape. In the diminishing daylight I have to negotiate a new route and, in doing so, spectacularly misjudge the depth of a saltwater creek and am now not only up to my elbows in cold water but also sinking into oily mud. In this very instant, I grapple for the first time with the idea that, should something just like this happen, I am well and truly fucked. I have a mental image of Duke scouring Ruffle Bar two days hence and eventually coming across my uncallused hand protruding from the mud at low tide. I’ve let my geographical proximity to the city lull me into thinking that I could never really be in any bona fide danger. But in this panicked instant, I grasp the idea that I can be bested by the wilderness, even with the Empire State Building in full view. With considerable effort and a fresh perspective on my own mortality, I extract myself from the waist-deep mud.

CHAPTER THREE

Our Protagonist’s Quest for Sustenance and Warmth Comes to Naught.

Mollusks, it turns out, can be terribly single-minded when you attempt to remove them from their moorings. I’d imagined that gathering the mussels would be akin to picking grapes from the vine, but I soon realize that I would need some elbow grease and the pliers of my Leatherman to pry them away. I inadvertently crush a great many mussels before I manage to yank off a puny one and throw it into the kid’s pail that I’ve found. A streak of lightning lights up the sky immediately followed by a deafening thunderclap. I suddenly realize that, wet and standing in a salt marsh, I am well qualified to be struck. I harvest two more dinky mussels before the worsening conditions send me scampering back to base camp.
My survival book says that “standing deadwood” is choice fuel for a campfire. En route to camp I quickly snap off the brittle—if slightly damp—limbs of a tree that has long since expired. I re-pin the tarp to the now oozing soil, throw what I’d gathered inside, and jump in after it. Like Duke’s dinghy, the deck of my hovel is now a sandy puddle. Water has even got on and into my bag containing my books, spare T-shirt, notebook, and—most critically—my book of matches. Of course, the outdoorsy books say to bring large wooden matches in a waterproof box, but again, I made an ill-advised shortcut. I set to work kicking sand to the perimeter of the shelter to dam the rainwater spilling into it.
In the black of night, Manhattan gives off a sickly yellow glow, and the twin red lights of the Gil Hodges blink in the distance. The wind picks up and whistles right through the shelter, leading me to dig down into the earth so my bed is essentially a damp, steep-walled ditch bordered by a parapet to keep out the pooling rainwater all around. It’s then, lying in my shallow grave, that I begin to shiver. I am far too damp and cold to sleep, so I intermittently read by flashlight, in the knowledge that at some point during the night the batteries will be spent and I’ll have no further distractions from my discomfort. I discover that my flashlight radiates a considerable amount of heat. After using it to consult my survival book, I press the hot end to the numbest parts of me. It seems that though everything is now damp, half of my book of matches has somehow survived the worst of it.
I read that in the absence of any man-made flammable materials (my books and notepad are now too damp), strips of birch bark are nature’s touch paper, and it just so happens that birch branches are what I’ve used to make the skeleton of my shelter. With my knife, I cannibalize my home from the inside out, peeling off swatches of bark and cutting them into ribbons. I collect them in a little pile on the lip of my shelter and arrange my damp, dead twigs in a wigwam shape over the top of it. It takes very many attempts and I am down to just two matches before I finally have a little flame going. The twigs don’t catch but instead hiss and steam a little bit. My kindling is spent, my last match is used, and I realize the full gravity of this self-inflicted danger. I think about death. Specifically, my death. I think about how unsympathetic I feel when I hear about death by misadventure; when someone meets a sticky but self-inflicted end from base-jumping, running with the bulls, climbing Everest, etc. It’s just asking for it; theatrical hara-kiri. Then I think about how much less sympathy my own ridiculous demise will garner.

CHAPTER FOUR

Wind, Rain, and Carnivorous Beasts Conspire to Rob Our Adventurer of His Sanity.
Around 2 a.m., after four hours of sitting in the dark, I feel exhausted enough to try to get some shut-eye and bury the lower half of my body in sand as insulation. I only doze off for minutes at a time before a thunderclap or mysterious shriek jolts me awake. But in those mini-pockets of snooze, I am having the most vivid dreams about death, the amputation of my legs at the knee, and an armada of clicking, hissing horseshoe crabs storming the beach like some Paleozoic D-day. At the climax of one particularly distressing vignette, I find myself looking into a pair of glowing eyes. It takes a couple of seconds to realize this isn’t a continuation of nightmares but that I am actually face to face with a large and rain-sodden raccoon. His head is under the tarp, his face about eighteen inches from my own.
“Fuck off!” I scream, but not having spoken in almost twelve hours, my voice cracks, and this surely gives the creature the notion that I am more scared of him that he is of me. Accordingly, he seems to shrug and slinks back off into the downpour. There is no sleeping now.
It being June, true darkness lasts only about seven hours, and just after 4 a.m., I kick off my shoes, brush off some of the grime, and look at the state of my tingling feet. They are translucent, bruised, and cadaverous. I start freaking out. (But justifiably—I learn later that I am suffering from a WWI-era malady called trench foot, which, if not treated in time, can lead to gangrene and, if you’re really unlucky, amputation.) It’s only the shame of disappointing Duke that prevents me from calling for a rescue.
Instead, I decide that I have to eat something and run out into the storm to collect some seaweed. I grab a handful from the sand and rinse it off in the surf. I come back, nibble on it, and, of course, it is foul. I then pry open one of my little mussels and poke at the slimy innards. Perhaps it’s the act of steaming that makes them look less like phlegm. A moment away from chugging it, I remember what I’d read about Jamaica Bay’s four water-treatment plants’ not being able to deal with excessive storm water, and how, during weather like dear old Barry, raw sewage is often dumped into the bay. As hungry as I am, my misery will be many times worse if I have some sort of gastrointestinal episode, so I try instead to cheat hunger by filling up on water. I remember the coconuts farther up the shoreline. Excitedly, I run across the sand and, after finding three or four empty shells, pick up a nut whose weight promises sweet sustenance. I engage the chisel from my Leatherman and hammer a hole through the shell with the aid of a brick. I tip the milk into my mouth. It is seawater tinged with merely a hint of coconut flavor. But there is still the flesh! I crack open the nut on a rock and slice out a morsel of bright white meat. Unfortunately, in the weeks, months, or years since this fruit was set adrift, seawater has penetrated the shell and pickled the interior, resulting in something inedible, sour, and putrid. I manage to get a few bites down before a protracted bout of gagging.

CHAPTER FIVE

Our Fallen Hero’s Spirit Is Broken, His Pride Cast Off; Plus, the Journey Home.
Barry has been intensifying overnight, and the collecting runoff water looks set to breach my levees. I scurry out of the shelter and trudge through the silt to the crashing waves on the beach, and attempt to haul an overturned fiberglass boat to higher ground for use as cover, but it proves much too heavy. Running back to the shelter, I gash my shin on an upright bit of decaying driftwood and a trickle of blood streams down my leg. By 9 a.m., with a limp, a coating of grime, hunger, fatigue, trench foot, and still no break in the weather, I shamefacedly text Duke an SOS signal. He isn’t scheduled to pick me up until the afternoon of the following day, and I later find out that in order to mount a rescue mission, he had to cancel two tattoo sittings. That’s just the kind of guy he is.
He says that he will be there just as soon as the bay calms down enough to cross safely, and knowing that I won’t have to endure another night shivering in the elements is a massive relief.
The rain that commenced just as Duke had dropped me off magically ceases as soon as I catch sight of him rowing toward me, at about 3:30 p.m. By the time he makes landfall, Ruffle Bar is a subtropical idyll, making it even more difficult to explain how I’ve fallen afoul of my surroundings. My embarrassment is eclipsed by the feeling of relief that I am now just a few hours away from a meal, a hot shower, and clean linens.
“You okay, man?” he asks with genuine concern. “I brought something to warm you up.”
I expect a blanket, but instead, Riley produces a bottle of Irish whiskey. Yo-ho-ho and all that. I take a gulp and wince.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I just didn’t expect the weather to be quite like that.”
To ease my blushes, he says that he’d been thinking about how the weather might have been playing hell with my schemes. “I was having dinner last night and I heard the thunder and I was like, ‘Aww, man!’ But, hey, your shelter looks like it did the trick, looks wicked cozy.”
Everything in my body language screams for us to get back across the bay, but Duke is in no hurry. He stands on the shore drinking it all in (along with another snort from the bottle) as I examine the grime and grit that has infiltrated my every pore, and long to be hosed down and scrubbed hard. He collects fragments of thick, colorful glass bottles embossed with the names of the local distilleries and breweries.
“See those bits of purple on the clamshells?” he asks me. “The Canarsee Indians who lived all over here used to make beads out of it. That’s wampum.”
He’s transported: seeing the island as Giovanni de Verrazano had seen it in 1524. I, on the other hand, need to be transported to a McDonald’s, and soon enough, we are headed back.
“New York City has been sort of superimposed on a group of islands,” says Duke between effortful oar strokes that propel us slowly but surely toward Floyd Bennett Field. “But it’s designed in a way that the people who live here can totally be unaware of how fucking awesome it is.”

是的，我是在West Pond拍的，你说的“公路另外一边”是East Pond, 我夏天去过一次，不如West鸟多，也许冬天不一样？

楼主是在停车场那边那条小路上拍的吗？。。那边人跟鸟的距离很远，因为人只能在小路上走。。。我经常过去公路另外一边，那边有一个更大的湾区，人可以合法走下去，那里，只要你用迷彩服蒙头，那些鸟就会在你身边走来走去。。。哈。。。我也在NY，等我存够了钱买600,才会光顾那里了。。。

好吧，给我几天时间。

Canada Goose大雁12-20-2007

喜欢第一张

zixian，

建议首贴来点中文说明。

不知道是什么？

Canada Geese and Snow Geese 12-20-2007

麻雀12-20-2007

[zixian 编辑于 2007-12-21 03:40]

牙买加湾是纽约拍鸟人常去的地方，这里是关于它的介绍，我粗译了一下，希望有人能指出我翻译的错误。为的是给纽约这里的拍鸟人提供一个介绍，在这里上图的朋友希望注明你图的出处和时间，以便来纽约的拍鸟人方便寻找。欢迎所有人评图，无论好坏对拍摄者都是贡献。

The Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge, a unit of Gateway National Recreation Area, is one of the most important urban wildlife refuges in the United States. Encompassing 9,155 acres, it is comprised of diverse habitats, including salt marsh, upland field and woods, several fresh and brackish water ponds and an open expanse of bay and islands- all located within the limits of New York City. The Wildlife refuge is nationally and internationally renowned as a prime birding spot where thousands of water, land and shorebirds stop during migration. More than 325 species have been recorded here during the last 25 years.
牙买加湾野生动物保护区是通道国家园区的组成部分，也是美国最重要的城市野生动物保护区之一。保护区占地9155英亩，由不同的生态区组成，包括盐碱湿地、丘陵地、林地、几个淡水和咸水塘和一个开阔海湾和几个小岛，全都座落在纽约市内。野生保护区在国内和国际上闻名遐迩，是主要的观鸟胜地，成千上万的水鸟、陆鸟和岸鸟迁徙时在此停留。在过去25年里，这里记录的鸟种有325种之多。

Each season has different possibilities for natural phenomena. The Spring brings warbler and songbird migrants. A special treat is the peculiar courting display of the breeding American Woodcocks during the evening in late March. Starting mid-August is the migration of southerly bound shorebirds. The Fall is noted for migrating hawks and raptors, songbirds and warblers and great numbers of waterfowl. Also to be noted are the migrating Monarch Butterflies and dragonflies.
每个季节都有可能出现不同的自然现象，春天会有莺和燕雀路过。一个特别的景观是三月下旬的每晚可看到美洲鸟鹬罕见的求偶场面。八月中旬开始，往南方飞的岸鸟开始迁移。秋天主要是鹰、猛禽、燕雀、莺和大量的水禽迁徙，同时也有君主蝴蝶和蜻蜓路过。

Quite a number of birds breed either within the area of the trails or on the islands that are in the bay. Some of those species on the upland and salt marsh areas are Canada Geese, Yellow, Common Yellowthroat and Redstart warblers, Osprey, Oystercatchers, Willets, and Tree Sparrow. Less visible breeding areas hold nest sites for Black Crowned and Yellow Crowned Night Herons, Great Blue Heron, Great and Snowy Egret, Glossy Ibis and Barn Owl. This has been abetted by an active nest box placement program and the protection of prime nesting areas during breeding season.
相当数量的鸟类在这个海湾的小径区内或在岛屿上繁殖后代。丘陵和盐沼区的一些物种中包括加拿大大雁、黄喉地莺、红尾鸲、鹗、蛎鹬、鹞和树雀。黑冠和黄冠夜鹭、蓝鹭、大白鹭、雪鹭、朱鹭和猫头鹰的巢不容易看到，因此我们放了许多筑巢的盒子，在繁殖季节保护主要巢区，使其容易看到。

The refuge is also productive for the now rare native flora and fauna of the coastal areas. Due to introduction of native species and creation of conducive habitat, Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge is the home to breeding reptiles and amphibians, small mammals and butterflies.
保护区也有助于海岸区目前比较罕见的本土动植物生长。由于引入了一些本土物种和建立了有益的生态环境，牙买加湾野生动物保护区已经成为繁殖爬虫动物、两栖动物、小哺乳动物和蝴蝶的家园。

There are a number of sections of the refuge that are particularly good for birders and naturalists. You will find in this description specific information about two of the best: the East and West Ponds.
保护区有许多区段特别吸引观鸟者和自然爱好者。下文中你将看到对东塘和西塘这两个最好的地方的一些具体描述。
West Pond: [MAP]The west pond is a gravel loop trail, (see map), starting at the Visitor Center. It is approximately 1-1/2 miles in total and takes about 1 and 1/2 hours to complete. (A side spur between benches 9 and 10 is the Terrapin Nesting Area which is closed during breeding season. In the Fall it provides good viewpoints for shorebirds, terns and gulls.) The pond itself is 45 acres. There are benches throughout the course of the trail placed in good position for viewing. As noted, the West pond is excellent habitat for coastal shorebirds and waterfowl, but the trees and shrubs around the trails add to its productivity. In the winter, large flocks of Snow Geese can be found on the west pond, along with other ducks such as Lesser and Greater Scaup, Ruddy Duck, Ring-Necked Duck, Green-Winged Teal, Northern Pintail, American Widgeon, and Gadwall. Nearly every winter brings rarities such as Eurasian Widgeon and Tufted Duck. Watch the Bay side for Horned Grebes. From spring through fall, the west pond often has flocks of Black Skimmers. Least and Common Terns are usually seen, along with the occasional Gull-Billed Tern. The North and South Gardens are quite good during songbird and warbler migration, and quite a few of these species breed in this part of the refuge. (Note: It can get a little mucky along some sections of the Garden area.)
西塘：
西塘是一条砾石铺成的环线小路，起自访客中心，长约1.5英里，大约1个半小时可走完。（第9和第10号长凳之间的一条旁径是龟鳖巢区,在饲养季节是关闭的。在秋天可在这里是观看岸鸟、海燕和海鸥。）池塘本身占地45英亩。小径沿线有许多长凳，安放在最好的观赏位置。如前所述，西塘是极优的岸鸟和水鸟生境区，而且，小径周围的树和灌木也使西塘多姿多彩。冬天，你可以在西塘看到大群的雪雁，以及其他鸭子，例如大小潜鸭、红斑鸭、环颈鸭、绿肢鸭、北半球针尾鸭、美国野鸭和赤膀鸭。在海湾一边可以看到??，从春天到秋天，西塘上经常有成群的黑剪嘴鸥。此外，经常能看到燕鸥，偶尔也可能看到鸥嘴燕鸥。迁移季节中，北边和南边的花园在鸣鸟和莺路过的时候也很好看，在保护区这一部分也有相当多种类的鸟孵蛋。（注：园内有些地方可能有鸟粪。）

East Pond: [MAP]Created in 1951, The East Pond is located across from the Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge visitor center on the east side of Cross Bay Boulevard. (See map.) Consisting of about 100 acres of fresh water and its accompanying marshes and wetlands, the pond supports a substantial variety of plant and animal life. Though natural in appearance, the water level is lowered in June and September to provide mud flats for migrating shorebirds. Thousands of birds stop here on their summer migrations along the Atlantic Flyway. Lowering the water level also allows visitors access to the pond. At other times of the year access is limited to the trail head.
东塘：
东塘建于1951年，位于跨湾大道东边牙买加湾自然保护区访客中心对面（见图）。东塘包括大约100英亩的淡水和相连的沼泽和湿地，塘内有各种各样的植物和动物。六月和九月人为降低水位，为迁移的岸鸟提供泥层，但这看起来很自然。夏天，沿大西洋飞路迁徙的成千上万侯鸟停留在这里。水平面降低也让参观者可沿池塘边进入。在一年的其它时间只能走到小径的尽头。
Be sure to prepare for a visit to the East Pond. Wear waterproof walking shoes, waders or shoes you won’t mind getting wet and dirty, since a good part of the trail takes you along the edge of the pond. When the pond shore is wet it can be very mucky and one tends to sink into it if not exercising care. It is recommended that you bring insect spray and sun screen in late Spring, Summer and early Fall. You may also want to bring a small container of water.
参观东塘一定要预作准备，穿防水的走路鞋、长靴或不介意被弄湿或弄脏的鞋子，因为小径很长的一部分是沿着池塘边走的。当塘岸湿的时侯，可能会非常脏，而且一不小心就很可能陷进泥里。晚春、夏季和早秋时节，最好携带蚊虫喷剂和防晒霜，也许还要带一小瓶饮用水。

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[zixian 编辑于 2010-06-07 22:38]
本帖最后由 zixian 于 2012-11-26 19:50 编辑