Drizzle has settled in. Across Mexico, whence a fair quantity of migrants originate, it’s called chipi-chipi, that insistent misty drip; I call it ‘hypothermia weather’ when it’s April and the air temperature is in the upper forties.
So be it. I’m not quite clear on whether any new migrants came north yesterday ahead of this mess, so the first stop this Saturday is the tracks along the Plummer’s Hollow crossing.
Paola texts me sleepily at 6:03 AM: es lluvia?
Short for ‘lluvia de aves,’ this is a term we invented from our time in coastal China, when fronts would result in rains of birds out of the sky onto our campus, and even through the open windows of our classrooms. Here, in the Gap, it seems to be a matter of luck, as on many days this time of year (mostly in May) migrants (as opposed to the nesting regulars) fall out on the ridges or fields high above me, while nothing happens down here. But sometimes it’s vice versa: the privet jungles and riparian willows are briefly abuzz with the vocalizations of unusually high numbers of birds, including some unusual (for this location) passage migrants—Mourning Warbler, Kentucky Warbler, White-eyed Vireo, Prairie Warbler—while all is normal up on the mountain. The trick is guessing where one can intercept a localized fallout of such rarities, since they may become undetectable by 8 AM—hard rain may set in, or they may feed for a bit and settle down or simply depart to a habitat more to their preference.
‘Day of the Ducks’
On April 9, 1979, northbound waterfowl, having collided with an icestorm, pelted down across the area. The hotspot’s only records of White-winged Scoter and Ruddy Duck, as well as the only non-NFC record of Long-tailed Duck, all seen swimming on the Little Juniata, come from this day, and our only Horned Grebe record came from a couple days later (found headless in the field). Mom’s and Dad’s journals, and some old checklists from my oldest brother Steve, detail a local landscape splattered with waterfowl, with dozens or even hundreds on every pond and puddle, and crowding the local reservoirs. Other old-timers in the region may remember rescuing grebes or loons forced down fields and on parking lots.
Other fallouts are limited to a single species. On May 10, 1981, Steve alerted the family to a warbler flock in an oak tree near the house, around 6 PM. They were all the same species, Bay-breasted Warbler, and his estimate of 100 individuals constitutes the largest single number of this passage migrant recorded at one time in Pennsylvania, at least as reported in eBird.
No Hay Lluvia
The chipi-chipi continues, but no unusual calls accompany the Louisiana Waterthrushes and Wood Thrushes. Time to check the ridgetops.
The quickest route to the best and quietest forest is from the hollow road up Dogwood Knoll and across Greenbriar and Bird Count trails. These hug the tangly, hollow-facing parts of Sapsucker Ridge and have consistently yielded the most diverse and highest numbers of warblers. It doesn’t take long for the local Ove
nbirds, Black-and-white Warblers, and American Redstarts to be heard. Then a gurgly buzz signals a FOY: Black-throated Blue Warbler. Predictably, it’s a male back on territory; today’s other records are also males, back at two other of their preferred breeding locations. I would guess they returned sometime this week.
Abnormally high number of Blue-Gray Gnatcatchers, almost all pairs. I end up seeing 25, a hotspot record, high enough to trip the eBird filter for abnormally high numbers. A gnatcatcher fallout of sorts?
And the cowbirds. Sheesh. A very conservative 42 for the day, all in groups of three to seven, low down, high up, singing, calling. At this point it’s hard to imagine a bird nest this year without one of those horrendous Brown-headed Cowbird chicks in it, gobbling up all the food. It seems like a lot of cowbirds, and it is: the highest number we’ve ever recorded in Plummer’s Hollow. And probably not a fallout; they’re here to stay.
Eastern Towhees, well, they just never stop today. I supposed there are hundreds on our property, all paired up; my list gets to 74, which seems like two in every patch of brush, in every habitat, even in the drier and less-diverse forests of Laurel Ridge.
They ignore the rain, as do the Ovenbirds: males of this thrush-like warbler species are spaced every 100 yards or less, doing their ‘teacher-teacher-teacher’ songs. Seventeen for the hike.
Blackburnian Warbler is another mountain specialty, and as I figured, it returned last week and is singing on territory. In Plummer’s Hollow, that means the spruce grove and surrounding deciduous forest at the top, and the hemlock areas of the deep hollow. A FOY Chestnut-sided Warbler (which almost certainly isn’t going to nest in the hotspot), singing ‘pleased to meet you!,’ is part of the only mixed-species warbler/Ruby-crowned Kinglet/Blue-Gray Gnatcatcher flock, which is working the young birch grove along the neck of First Field. They’re all close in the still largely leafless wood, and thus easy to see. As is often the case this time of year, singing Yellow-rumped Warblers, the most butterfly-like of the warblers, and solely passage migrants here, are the main species in the flock.
So it’s not quite warbler mania part 2, and not quite fallout, but it will do. Heck, it’s only April! But the fun’s not over yet. The three minutes from the gate to town end up stretching to half an hour: migrating swallows are all around the bridge and the old trestle, chasing prey just above the water. They swoop and dive all about, under and over the bridge and close by my face, mostly Northern Rough-winged Swallows and some Barn Swallows, with a single Bank Swallow (FOY) and a Tree Swallow.
Overall, 64 species during the course of almost seven hours and eight miles. A respectable list for an April morning (but an easy two-hour list for May), despite missing Turkey Vulture and others.
Aquatic macroinvertibrates are emerging into their adult form on the Little Juniata providing food for swallows and all manner of fly catchers. Our sulfurs (yellow mayflies) are in fill bloom! We fly fishers wait all year for these days of ample bugs...and then the river gets too high and muddy to fish, but the birds reap the harvest regardless.