Early bird specials on Grosbeak Trail...
...and heron-filled nights
May 16th, and everything’s back. Not just that—only a handful of through-visitors have yet to register. The year’s species total already stands at 196, with a good chance of breaking 200, NFCs willing, before the end of May, what has taken until the fall to achieve the last few years. While a little of this is due to improved understanding of what species come through exactly when and where, overall it seems due to a much improved waterfowl count, thanks in part to the tough winter.
We are currently in a major episode of southerly flow, rainstorms battering the millions still trying to get north. Toward the beginning of May, a similar series of storms brought some exotics, so we’ll see what this one does.
Night of the herons
As it stands, Plummer’s Hollow’s nemesis bird is the Little Blue Heron, a species that older brother and birder extraordinaire Steve saw years ago but did not retain a date for, meaning there’s no way to truly “count” it. Spoiler alert: we didn’t get one of those this year. However, just about everything else has been by.
The year started with Great Blue Herons, as expected, followed by the always-spectacular Great Egret after some storms on April 15. The migrant rush continued with nocturnal calls of American Bittern on April 20, and Green Heron on April 22, both common migrant species, the bittern much more so than most people probably realize. Surprisingly, the incredibly furtive Least Bittern got on the NFC boards as well on the 22nd, quite a bit earlier than usual. Anything after that would be welcome but unexpected.
The end of April marked the conclusion of obsessive sky watching and a pivot to the forests, but I continued to watch the dusk skies in case something interesting took off early for a nocturnal migration. This was rewarded on the 30th around 7:40 PM when I spotted a quartet of herons in loose formation rise up from somewhere on the northeast side of town—I have no idea where—and heading briefly toward Bald Eagle Mountain, over the interstate. Thinking better of it, they veered north toward the dying light, to spend the night in one of the many small wetlands north of town, or perhaps to gain altitude for another migration leg. It took me a moment to register that they were American Bitterns, not Green Herons; the species does migrate in small groups, thought they’re rarely seen flying together in daylight.
(A half-hour later, a migrant of another sort flapped upriver and straight overhead. On the initial approach, I thought it was bird but then realized it was the largest bat I’d seen this side of Australia in as long as I could remember. I’m guessing it was a Hoary Bat, as its wingspan was well over a foot, larger than the Red Bats that I see occasionally from the balcony.)
As April turned to May, the weather turned stormy, which is always good this time of year as it can hurl strange Southern species into the middle of the Ridge and Valley. And so it did—the night of the 4th to the 5th, especially. My first clue that something interesting had transpired that night was a Black-crowned Hight Heron on Eric’s PUC from around 1:18 AM, which I can see from my laptop in town, so before I see my own NFCs that I have to go to the mountain to get. This was only the second year for this species, so it wasn’t one I was expecting to get again so soon.
Later in the morning, a gorgeous photo of Black-bellied Whistling-Ducks provided definitive proof from a trout fisherman (and non-birder) on my eBird review feed of a new Blair County species. He had rounded a bend on the Frankstown Branch of the Juniata, a southerly twin of the Little Juniata that runs through the hotspot, and there they were on a snag. I am excessively fond of this Southern and Latin American species, in part for their calls, from which they get their Mesoamerican names, pijije or pichiche. They are one of a group of Southern species making their way more frequently to the state, though not often to the deep recesses of these mountains.
Next up were the NFCs. At 11:50 PM on the 4th, a single squawk from a Yellow-crowned Night Heron lit up my feedback-clogged, not-long-for-this world recorder. I put in the report somewhat reticently, even though it was a perfect match, as it was a first for the county and the hotspot. A couple days later, I received one of those dreaded auto-generated eBird reviewer responses that one gets when a record needs to be fixed. Instead, though, this one turned out to be a congratulatory note, with the reviewer’s comment:
Dear Mark Bonta NFC Station,
Boooom!!!!!!
Killer! [name redacted]
The night wasn’t over, however. The single 1:18 AM Black-crowned squawk from the PUC a quarter mile away resolved into a two-minute stretch of calls, almost certainly indicating multiple individuals. Later, another two minutes were taken up with a small flock of American Bitterns, probably some of the last for the season. A Gadwall flew by, as well as the first true peep, a FOY Least Sandpiper. Several Green Herons and Great Blue Herons also cruised through, as well as other American Bitterns.
The Fourth Tern
Until I glimpsed that Caspian back in April, the few tern records for the hotspot were all NFCs from recent years. Even more than gulls, terns seem to prefer migrating at night; thankfully, their vocalizations are distinct and not infrequent. We had picked up the first and only Common and Black terns three seasons ago, so it was only fitting in a year full of surprises that the missing species would show up this year. On May Day, after a banner day on the slopes, a strange call registered at 10:52 PM, not quite a Virginia Rail; more like a Red-headed Woodpecker. I tried to match it without help, but nothing quite fit. The next morning, I played it to Merlin, which to my chagrin-slash-delight made an immediate hit: Forster’s Tern. Of course! Memories flooded back of dozens of delicate terns of this species in migration over the remote bars and backwaters of the Mississippi down off the Yazoo Basin a few years ago; they made this call frequently as they fluttered above and dove into the current.
The Forster’s Tern and Yellow-crowned Night Heron put the public species number for Plummer’s Hollow at 234; two hidden owls make it 236.
Kentucky junction / Tennessee takeover
With the right shoes and enough adrenaline left over from a gym workout, it made sense this year to avoid the Hollow road for the high-season “Early bird specials” I do to intercept species as soon as possible after their first arrival. On the best fallout days, the experience, which also entails attempting to count everything (curse you, eBird!) leaves my brain numb with staccato “warbler buzz” the rest of the day.
The trek is a bit daunting, but extremely rewarding if you get above the noise of the stream just as or before the sun hits. Instead of entering the Hollow, you take the first right up the knife-edge of Sapsucker Ridge, gasping for breath, flushing White-throated Sparrows out of the invasives, leaving a Louisiana Waterthrush or two raucously singing and flying about below. In early May, the best time is a little bit after six, and it takes around ten or 15 minutes to get up far enough to clearly hear the first Blackburnian Warbler claiming territory. To the right, the upper reaches of what I call Railroad Hollow, with some very lush and tall forest, start to reverberate as the early-rising Scarlet Tanagers and Wood Thrushes, which plague us by the dozens, are joined by a cacophony of warblers and vireos. To the left is the Hollow itself, while wrapping around the steep climb is a tree canopy alive with birds of every description. I found the best place to stop on the way up is a tiny flat area within reach of the cut-off trail, so I named it Warbler Knoll. It’s an excellent spot to look across at canopy warblers like Bay-breasteds and Blackburnians, not to mention Northern Parulas, at all-time high numbers this year, and Tennessees, which have seemed nearly infinite, also at record highs.
A vireo sweep occurred on May 1st, thanks to this circuit: all expected vireo species were improbably present on the same day: the four common ones and both rarities. A White-eyed Vireo sang from near the stream right at Plummer’s Hollow crossing, as happens every year: at dawn for a few minutes, within a window of a few days, only there and not again. Then, in the first mixed flock at Warbler Knoll, a big surprise was a Philadelphia Vireo, quite early but not impossible; by that point we had already had first-ever April records of species like Eastern Wood-Pewee. In fact, late April brought so many early migrants that Plummer’s Hollow had for a brief period the second-highest year list for the state.
I don’t follow the knife-edge all the way to the top of the ridge, even though there’s a trail up to the point and then all the way along it. The reason is that there is too much noise at the top, and only two good ways to look: up, and up higher, bound to result in a severe case of warbler neck. This is similar to walking the Hollow road when water’s high and leaves are on: stream noise obscures bird noise, and everything over than waterthrushes, Worm-eating Warblers, Ovenbirds, and Acadian Flycatchers is 60 feet or more overhead.
The best birding trajectory stays a couple hundred feet or so below the top, and fortunately, the old logging road that cuts off that way from the knife-edge, choked with invasives, was just re-opened by Dave and a trusty blade. It swings through Hanging Hollow and dies in Big Tree Hollow, but a faint trail continues through some jetbead and onto a flattish upper slope area at a spot I call Locust Knoll, from which it is possible to cut across the top side of Fisher Hollow, through hay-scented ferns and past an old tree stand and blind remnant, intersecting a logging road that connects to Dogwood Knoll and easier terrain. The mixed flocks on the huge, towering old oaks and tulip poplars along this stretch have got to be as diverse and abundant as anywhere in the East.
On one particular early May morning, Rose-breasted Grosbeaks, already back for a week, were singing at the bottom by the gate (where they nest) and only got louder as I ascended. By the time I passed Warbler Knoll, their songs and calls were everywhere, and males were chasing each other across the forest floor. Just after I attained the elevation of the old logging road and turned left, gasping, a pair alighted on a vine a few feet below me and less than ten feet away. As usual, I had not lugged my camera along; I remonstrated myself while they sat there patiently staring at me, as if stunned that I had turned up in this remote spot. They fled just as I got my phone camera out and ready, but many more accompanied me most of the way to Dogwood Knoll.
Previously, most of this trail stretch had been dubbed “Greenbriar Extended,” but at least for my own purposes, I began to call it Grosbeak Trail that day. This idea had been in the works for years—during the few times I have gotten up there in spring migration and then breeding season, I’ve noticed that there is an unusually high concentration of the species, for some reason.
On that May 1st hike, as happens during high-season fallout stretches, the species count climbed rapidly past 50 even before 7 AM, and on up toward 80 before the woods were exhausted. The next highlight, after dozens of Worm-eating Warblers also chasing and fighting, was the rich, ringing song of a Kentucky Warbler, exactly at the junction area of Greenbriar and Bird Count trails. It is eerie how this species occurs briefly there, or very close by, year after year, whether it breeds or not, but doesn’t show up anywhere else than occasionally along the tracks. In this, it is even more restricted than the Mourning Warbler, which has a narrow zone where it can be found, but isn’t limited to pretty much a single small patch. It’s more similar to the Yellow-bellied Flycatcher, a passerby that also seems to have extremely specific habitat requirements, even for brief stopovers (two of these have turned up so far; they are one of the toughest spring migrants to locate, and seem to prefer a non-invasive understory with witch hazel, at least in our woods, and close to the Kentucky spot).
In addition to these rare transients popping up at specific and highly predictable locations in our woods, the fact that the handful we get seem to arrive at the same locations year after year, after lengthy night flights, raises an interesting point about the acuity of their mental maps. I guess I had never considered the obvious: that individuals capable of pinpointing exact spots at both ends of their biannual journeys also have the precise waypoints worked out as well. I am still mystified how this works across generations, however.
This year, the Kentucky actually stuck around for more than a day, though not as visible as it was on the 1st. On that initial encounter, he flew into low branches within a few feet of me, singing lustily, almost aggressively, then going in circles through a series of perches with me at the center. I looked at Merlin—it detected nothing, even while pretty much nailing the correct IDs of the many common species all around.
Other birders sought it out and found it again ta couple days later, and I heard it once more (in the middle of a rainstorm), at which point I started to hope that it would stay. But, like last year’s Yellow-breasted Chat but less patient, it disappeared after that, maybe heading southward a ways for a better chance at a mate. Naturally, I named the spot KEWA Junction.
As for the the Tennessee Warblers, they picked up speed and numbers a few days later. They are undoubtedly the most charismatic and numerous of the spring pass-throughs, spending well over a week at peak numbers, though spread evenly across the entire property rather than concentrating in any particular place, doubtless in the hundreds overall at any given time. Clusters of three or four do provide dizzying performances in the canopy here and there, but mostly they occur as singles, either alone or in mixed flocks. And do they sing! Their racket begins not long after the very earliest warbler, American Redstart, starts its thing, and continues at least throughout the morning. I presume it dies out at some point past 10, after I’m out of the woods. Like Red-eyed Vireos and redstarts, during peak TEWA there seems to always be one singing, no matter where you are.
Random notes in place of a coherent section
My email signature notes that my birding blog is “weekly,” but if I don’t finish it today it isn’t even going to qualify for “monthly.” In lieu of more deathless prose and clever headings, then, here are some jumbled notes for posterity on the other notable, birdish events of the high season:
At some point a while ago, the local Common Ravens began to feed nestlings, which by about a week ago were sufficiently large that they were making raspy, bone-chilling begging calls at all hours from their invisible nest under the interstate. The parents were kept busy fetching them every scrap from the streets, and have become quite bold in this endeavor. Yesterday, I saw the parents and two smaller fledglings for the first time, all together, cruising by above the interstate, perhaps involved in the first lesson on successful roadkill extraction.
Swallow numbers seems to be way down, and it took until a few days ago for a Barn Swallow to become a regular outside the apartment, though there’s no breeding pair. I’ve commented in past years that we probably have some of the more marginal habitat around, thus late to be selected, but even so, I almost gave up hope of experiencing the annual “River of Swallows” we get at least once every May during high water. However, the other night, I came across a modest flock over the river at the bridge, a mixture of some Barns and the ubiquitous Northern Rough-winged Swallows, which desperately need an easier name. No Cliffs in the crowd; I’ve seen a total of one this season, which is shocking given the amount of time I spend watching the sky. However, I did snag what I was fearing I would miss: a Bank Swallow. It’s devilishly hard to count more than one here, not only because it is quite scarce, but also because they only seem to occur sparsely within the flocks of common swallows, and you have to follow an individual that’s probably a rough-wing with your binoculars as it swoops and dives, hoping for a glimpse of the throat, to see the diagnostic ring and make the call. Light conditions are typically poor, and the roar of traffic makes it a bit hard to hear any vocalizations. I managed to spot one, but there was no way of knowing when I saw it again whether it was the same one. Once again for 2025: a count of 1.
Until a couple nights ago, I had reluctantly concluded that the elusive Yellow-throated Warbler had slipped through undetected, and I would have the unenviable task of attempting to find one in August or earlier, in post-breeding dispersal and migration. Many of these breed downriver, though not in our stretch, but I’m not sure if any breed upriver or up-creek from the confluence. Nevertheless, one did sing close to twilight from the confluence, and again the next morning, but not today. Perhaps a very late arrival—little would surprise me this year. More likely, though, it was temporarily displaced from an already-selected breeding spot somewhere else.
Now, the nemesis warbler is the Prairie. These are not too difficult to find in early fall migration, so I’m not that worried, but unlike the Kentucky and others I discussed above, this one has zero predictability in our marginal habitat. It can show up along the tracks or in the field, but usually singing later in the morning and on hot days, of which we’ve had very few, and by which time I’m at work. I like to minimize luck and increase predictability, but nothing has worked the last few years with this species. It is, as they say, where you find it.
Maybe, just maybe, I’m figuring out when the Yellow-breasted Chat shows up. None stuck around this year, unlike 2024’s anomaly, but on two separate days I’ve heard them calling softly from the blackberry thicket where the powerline goes over the field. If they’re not planning on sticking around—and these didn’t—apparently they don’t make much of a racket and are easily overlooked, skulkers that they are. The first time this occurred was part of some serious deja-vu: Saturday, May 3, a morning after storms from the southeast swept through overnight, dumping rarities and tons else. No Mourning yet (one didn’t show until the 11th), but just like 2024, the Kentucky was around, a chat was there, and at least one Clay-colored Sparrow appeared briefly in the yard. Thanks to expert help last year from members of a birding competition who had stayed overnight and located the very first one we’ve ever been aware of, I was attuned to the possibility. More than that—I spent fruitless hours the day after the discovery last year, chasing after the species’ buzzy song in all corners of the field and yard, but with nothing definitive. This year, the fact that one sang a few times suggested that we might have something of a stopover spot, a possibility I’ll explore again next year.
That same morning of the 3rd, I got a glimpse of a Vesper Sparrow in the field after it flew up to a locust branch for a few seconds; as I can count on this one showing up on the NFCs, I don’t go out of my way to find it in on the ground. There’s no evidence that one ever sticks around to think about breeding; our field isn’t the right type. A few minutes after that, and then throughout the morning as I dug 100 years of dust and small vertebrate mummies out of the barn basement, this year’s big cleanup project, I got to hear the extraordinary (for me) song of a White-crowned Sparrow on its way to northerly breeding grounds. I hear this so rarely that I always initially confuse it with a warbler.
The parade of Blue Jays was impressive again this year. I have to hand it to them—they migrate during the day, openly and seemingly without fear of raptor predation, starting up at dawn and continuing through the morning, day after day until I almost forget that they don’t do this all the time. They also move in the correct direction and follow the ridge, at least from what I can see, so if you had the time you could easily do an accurate count as they cross the Gap. After the raptors and waterfowl finish their thing, there’s not much else you can watch obviously migrating around here, as most of the rest move long-distance at night.
While mowing a ridgetop trail, Eric came upon an American Woodcock motionless on the ground the other day. An unexpected location for a nest, though he didn’t find obvious evidence.
Finally, here are a couple enjoyable videos that I won’t doctor and try to auction off as Ivory-bills. Once in awhile, the camera phone comes in useful.
Love your work!