My Life's Birds: #90

September 22, 1993 - Christian Co, Mo - Is there a more ubiquitous feeder bird in North America than the House Finch? They are, by far, the most numerous birds at my feeder in North Carolina. Since that fateful release of "Hollywood Finches" by a shady New Jersey Long Island pet dealer just over 50 years ago, they've rapidly expanded their range, previously limited to the western half of the continent, from sea to shining sea.

What's perhaps most amazing is the rate at which this bird has expanded its range. When I got my life individual, on the feeder at the Linden house, they were only uncommon residents, and it was something of a big deal. Since then, they've only increased, and birds like Purple Finches, once regular every winter, are hard to find in southern Missouri. While there's no solid evidence backing the assertion that Purple Finch population declines are directly related to House Finch population increases, it does seem that way. House Finches are aggressive little birds, and able to adapt to habitat degraded by development. But the winters in Missouri aren't as cold as they used to be either, and cold winters always brought the Purples in numbers.

House Finches are always there, however, and my sighting in 1993 was the beginning if what became a flood.

Off topic, but still cool. If there are some readers who want to see what birding is like in my old stomping grounds, check out the results of my dad's Big Day in Southwest Missouri, complete with really nice pictures!

Return of the Swamp Thing: pt 2

When we last left our intrepid birder, things were looking grim...

When I walked around the treatment pond, I saw it. The forest opened up to a wide path. The weeds had overgrown it, but that was a small issue. What's the possibility of a few ticks when you're leaving stinging nettle behind? I trudged down the path, hoping against hope for that one target bird, the "birder's bird" I was here to track down.

Then, deep in a thicket I heard it. Sweet and clear and amazingly, pretty darn close to the trail. I whistled the closest thing I could to an imitation of the song. The bird sang back, closer. Again and again I whistled into the brush, and again and again the bird returned call, but for the life of me I could not find it despite its proximity. Then, I caught a glimpse of a chubby, brown, short tailed bird as it jumped up into a large dogwood. Even though the view was partially obscured, par for the course for this particular species as I understand it, I saw enough of the Swainson's Warbler to not only count it for the year, which I would have done even if I hadn't spotted it, but also for my life list. I wish I could have gotten a picture, my camera was out and ready, but the bird never came particularly close and quickly disappeared back into the thick damp forest. It did continue singing, though, even as I walked away.

Swainson's Warbler is not at all a colorful bird, only brown, and not even a particularly rich shade of brown either. But it is undoubtedly a favorite of those who see it, largely because of the increased degree of difficulty. Definitely a "birder's bird". It'd been a target ever since I moved to North Carolina and the Roanoke River is pretty well-known as a good place to get it. It was great to finally find one. The last couple weeks have been pretty good for outstanding warblers on my life list, now if I could just pick up Cerulean...

With a spring in my step, such that it can be with my still healing foot, I headed on down the path to find both singing Hooded and Prothonotary Warblers, adding to a fairly decent warbler haul for the day. I rounded a corner when my trail stopped cold, abruptly dropping 30 feet down to a rain swollen tributary of the Roanoke. And things had been going so well. Looking through the woods I saw what appeared to be another rail bed, so with nothing to lose I once again barreled into the woods. When I reached the other side I was somewhat surprised by what I found.

It was a sign. A sign pointing to a well maintained, tick free, nettle free, weed free trail. The actual real-deal Canal Trail that I had been searching for the entire time. With arrows and everything. But perhaps it was for the best. As I returned to the trailhead, passing the place I had seen the Swainson's Warbler, I realized that I couldn't hear it. If I had followed the prescribed path along the river there was no way I would have gotten that great year bird, that lifer. The burrs on my socks, the itchy legs, the achy ankle were all testaments to how difficult Swainson's Warbler can be to find, and how hard I had to work to get it, and maybe most importantly, the value of just a little luck. The side track was rough, but the bird made the day.

I wasn't able to get a photo of the Swainson's. I didn't even really get a soul-satisfying look at it, just good enough to count. But some birds were more photogenic. I saw lots of evidence of nesting among residents, including the just out of the nest Titmouse to the right. I also saw baby chickadees, Pine Warblers, and bluebirds, all stubby tailed, yellow gaped and screaming for food. Soon enough that'll be all I see around here as the migrants head out.

Before I left I checked a couple additional spots on the trail, where near a pond I finally found a singing Yellow Warbler in his summer finest. Another crossed off of my year nemesis list. Next week is my last best gasp at a killer spring. Not only do I have a couple hours to kill in the mountains (my wife is running a 5k, I'll try to get 2 new birds for every kilometer she runs) and of course, the big spring pelagic out of Hatteras. I'm ending May with a bang, and of course, you all get to hear all about it. What this blog lacks in quantity next week, it'll make up in quality.

It's the stretch run, time to pull out the stops!

Return of the Swamp Thing: pt 1

There are certain birds that, for lack of a better term, can be considered "birder's birds". They may reach this distinction for a few different reasons. They may be common, but difficult to identify. The sort of birds that require close study to distinguish from one or more similar species, like Empidonax flycatchers in North America or Phylloscopus warblers in Europe or everyone's favorite, the gulls. They may be severely range restricted and require great effort to see. Or they might be wide ranging, but typically difficult to find, either by virtue of a secretive nature or cryptic coloration or, often times, both. The common denominator for all these species is work. The amount of time, spent in identification, or travel, or stakeout, that one must put in in order to have the right, some might say honor, to list a given bird. Some birds are well-known as real "birder's birds". Yesterday I went to get one.

The Roanoke River bisects the North Carolina/Virginia line until it dips down to the sea at the Albermarle Sound. This time of year the river is best known for the Striper run. The Striped Rockfish are an important fishery in this part of the country. They're life cycle is similar to the more famous salmon, who run up the rivers to spawn after spending their whole adult life at sea. The Roanoke River used to be full of rockfish this time of year. Numbers are down, but it's still a large enough population to support the fishermen who make the trip to the little town of Weldon. I started at the boat ramp with them, but we were there for different things.


I was following the old canal trail along the river, or at least, what I thought was the canal trail and right off the bat I was inundated with singing birds. At least three male Blackpoll Warblers sang adamantly from the trees by the river, and a Magnolia hopped around the thickets. Vireos were even better represented. Along with the abundant Red and White-eyed varieties, I found a Warbling Vireo, whose swirly song belied its plainish plumage. And to top it off, Bank Swallows coursed over the water, closing the book on regular North Carolina swallows for the year (now if I can just pick up the Caves that show up on the coast in the fall...).

I began to wonder if I was on the right trail when the path began to narrow and the underbrush began to close in overhead. I had looked at the map, I thought I was going the right way, I knew I was going the right direction at least. And the thicker the underbrush, the better habitat for my target bird, so I pressed on. Until I reached a swamp in an arm of the river that had no way to cross. That can't be right. Time for a little bush-whacking, and not the political sort. I managed to turn up on some train tracks that I followed to a sewage treatment plant (sounds great right?) where it appears the trail started up again. It dropped down towards the river, lush and green and not looking particularly manicured. I had avoided the copious amounts of Poison Ivy on the earlier parts of the trail. I don't usually get the stuff, but better safe than sorry. On this little bit I realized I had gotten myself into something worse. My legs began to tingle, then burn. I had walked right into the middle of a batch of stinging nettle.

It was about this point I began to get frustrated. I had lost the trail. I would have to re-cross the nettle patch to get out. My ankle, injured last week in the mountains, was still tender. I don't presume to know who is in charge or apportioning birding karma in the universe, but at this point I felt like I was in some serious debt. I had no choice but to put my head down, cross that nettle patch and reorient myself. There were still birds to see, and good ones too. Big Years are not for the faint of heart. Are you listening Gods of Birding? I expect some karmic retribution!

Will N8 find his way back to the trail?
Will the target bird finally show itself?
Will the Gods of Birding hear his plaintive cry?

Come back tomorrow. Same bird time, same bird station...

Making Time

This weekend was a tough one for birding. Mother's Day is a day for families, not for birdwatching, so between family time and work I was only able to sneak a few hours in on each day. Saturday morning found me at Mason Farm before work again, and a quick walk around the 2 mile trail netted me nothing of note but a single Magnolia Warbler, the first I've actually seen this year. I apparently set off some sort of Blue Grosbeak bomb as well, finding nearly a dozen, more than I've ever seen in one place.

I still have a few mind-boggling misses on my big year list and I had hoped that at least I would be able to fill a few of those holes. Amazingly, I've yet to find Yellow-throated Vireo, Yellow Warbler, or Baltimore Oriole this year. And I think I'm the only birder in North Carolina who has yet to see a Rose-breasted Grosbeak this spring. And for all the time I've spent in the field over the last few weeks, it makes for a frustrating few trips as I inexplicably miss these species time and time again.

Sunday morning I had the previously mentioned family responsibilities, so my birding was limited to waterfowl impoundments along major thoroughfares. The willows may have seemed pretty inviting to my Yellow Warbler sensibilities, but not so much for those of actual Yellow Warblers. I dipped on them again. But a single, quiet Eastern Wood-Pewee made the outing worthwhile. One year nemesis down, far too many remaining.

The rains came later in the morning, ruining graduation festivities at the major universities in the area, and officially ending the drought that so worried the Southeast last fall. We shouldn't get too comfortable though, this is exactly the same way it went down last year. However, if the same shorebird bonanza is the result, I might be ok with a dry summer. Selfish I know, but I'm just looking out for my Big Year, I have a feeling I'll be in the same boat come fall as I am these days.

Off to look for Swainson's Warblers today. Report tomorrow.

Went West, Young Man: pt 3

First and second parts on the links.

Back on the parkway. The next overlook provided a heard-only Magnolia Warbler, the first new year bird of the day. I would have liked to see it, as Mags are one of my favorite warblers. But the best bird of the day came just further down the road. After hearing a song I wasn't familiar with, I pulled off the side of the road, got out and immediately found a little Chestnut-side who was nearly as friendly as the first. But that wasn't the bird I had heard. So, with my ankle still a little sensitive I walked down the road towards the mystery song. There was a BT Blue there, and I began to think that maybe what I was hearing was either the BT Blue alternate song or a gussied up Chestnut-side. I got my binoculars on a little bird in the tangles and was surprised at what was singing back at me.

It was my great warbler nemesis, a stunning male Canada Warbler. The only thing better then seeing a life bird in perfect light as it sings its heart out only 15 feet away, is to get a photo of that same bird. So there you have it to the right. What a great bird. Big for a warbler and with a great warbly song. I soon picked up a second bird just down the slope singing in response to the original. When it rains it pours I guess. If I got no other warblers the rest of the day (and spoiler alert: I didn't), this one would make it worthwhile. Great bird, great experience.

I soon arrived at Mount Mitchell and drove to the peak. The boreal forest at the top of the mountain looks more like Canada than North Carolina. I had hoped that maybe I would run into the Red Crossbills that can be found year round up here, but no luck. I did hear the songs of both Winter Wren and Golden-crowned Kinglet which was a rare treat, and the Common Ravens were as evident as the Crows were further down the hill, but nothing else.

The Parkway was under construction south of Mitchell so I had to take a long detour down off the mountain that quickly descended 3000 feet in only 10 miles. The drive was less scenic but some trout ponds near the highway were home to a few Northern Rough-winged Swallows, the first of that species I'd seen this year. Once I refound the parkway I went south for a few miles with little luck other than a few more Chestnut-sides and BT Greens and surprisingly, another Canada, before I decided to call it a day and head home.

Only 4 new birds for the year, far fewer than I had hoped, so I've got my work cut out for me the next couple weeks. I should be able to find some boreal warblers around home though it won't be as easy. I might have some time on a non-birding return trip to the mountains in a couple weeks to clean up.

As for my foot? When I got the sock off I saw it was purple and swollen like a softball and looked for all the world like an the ankle of an 80 year old with edema. And now, four days later, it's still somewhat swollen and purple and hopefully won't keep me out of the field this coming weekend. I already had to pass on birding the morning I came back because of the tenderness. But that's how hard-core I am, folks, and at least I got a lifer out of it.

Went West, Young Man: pt 2

Part 1 is here.

It gets cold at night in the mountains. And when I woke up it was still dark out so I pulled a wool sock over my ankle without looking at it. By now was feeling somewhat better, at least I could walk with only a little discomfort. Good enough for me! I took down my tent and headed out to catch the dawn on the Parkway. I was going south, towards Mount Mitchell, the highest point in the United States east of the Mississippi. I drove along with the windows open, hoping to catch the song of anything besides the abundant BT Green Warblers, Red-eyed Vireos, and Wood Thrush. One of the most interesting thing I noted was the degree to with the trees on the ridge had begun to leaf out. The trees down in the valley were already in full foliage, but up where I was they had only begun to bud. It was like being transported back in time about 6 weeks, which, I began to note, was as true with regard to the birdlife as it was with the trees. You can see it in the photo below how the green seems to creep up the mountain.

Most people drive the parkway for its scenic splendor, and rightly so, it's gorgeous, and for that reason there are countless pulloffs and overlooks along the road. Not only do they usually provide a panoramic view of Licklog Gap or Flatrock Bald or even Cold Mountain (for you fans of literature or even just Jude Law), but they allow the birder a convenient look into the canopy of the trees directly below, a view you rarely get to enjoy. I took advantage of nearly every one, pulling off to take a quick listen for any singing warblers.

At one stop I came across the first of many singing Scarlet Tanagers. This one stayed in one place long enough for me to pull out the scope and try a little digiscoping. A nice couple from Florida pulled in and got to see it as well. New converts to the fold? Who knows, but a Scarlet Tanager is a pretty cool spark bird if so. As if to add to the wealth of colorful riches, no fewer than 4 male Indigo Buntings were singing and fighting in the cleared area directly below the pull off. The warblers were there in good numbers, but usually the same few species I'd seem before. By and large the BT Greens, BT Blues, Hoodies, Ovenbirds, and Black and Whites. In short, early spring warblers rather then the late spring boreals I was looking for on this trip.

That's not to say the birds that were there weren't fantastic too. I got the best looks I'd ever had of Scarlet Tanagers and BT Greens, and every single cleared area had a singing Indigo Bunting, and in many cases more than one. The woods, covered in new May Apples, rang with the songs of Wood Thrush and the occasional Veery. The last one, more like a science fiction sound effect than a bird, is my very favorite bird song.

Things started to turn around when I stopped at on overlook of McKinney Gap. In a shrubby area, below the pullout several small birds were foraging. They were mostly Dark-eyed Juncos, birds that nest up in the high parts along the ridge, and whose songs would continue to throw me the whole day (I'm just not used to hearing it!). I pished a bit to see if anything different would pop up and like a rocket out of a rhododendron grove shot this little Chestnut-sided Warbler who hopped around only a few feet from me. Here he is captured in mid-Get the Hell Out of Here moment. I was unable to take any additional photos as my camera wouldn't focus on a bird so close, an odd situation to be in. But the best bird was still to come.

The last part tomorrow...

My Life's Birds: #89

September 21, 1993 - Christian Co, Mo - On of our favorite summer activities in Linden was taking the canoe up the Finley River. An old dam slowed the river's current some so that the upper part, where we would put in, was more like a small lake. But if you paddled up around the bend where the current picked up and the river narrowed and most importantly, the houses stopped, you would often startle a heron or two and if you were really lucky, a Wood Duck.

Back when I began birding Wood Ducks were still not the sure thing they seem to be today. Maybe it's just because back in Missouri we were on the western frontier of their historic range rather then where I am now, right smack in the middle in North Carolina. They certainly were something of a big deal back then, now I see them practically everywhere I go, even if it's in the middle of the woods. In fact, on my recent trip west I had two flybys of Wood Ducks at around 5000 ft!

All of this because Wood Ducks are one of wildlife management's great success story. Being a brightly colored duck it was targeted by both market waterfowl hunters and the millinery trade. Combined with habitat loss the population was further decimated. But the Audubon Society, then in its infancy, worked hard to protect appropriate habitat and most famously, to put up nest boxes that would eventually come to be used by the birds all across their range. And we're better for it too, gaudy Wood Ducks are always a treat.