Hypothermia Weather
[Here’s the Checklist]
Steady pouring rain at 7 and I almost bail. I’m curious, though, about what, if anything, can fly in this weather. It’s a long wait.
My answer comes at 7:37 with a series of cries from the tannery raven. Spaced about five seconds apart, loud, then fainter. After eight minutes of this, some loud croaking, then it flaps steadily out into the storm, heading north past my field of vision.
More nothing. At 7:54, a bedraggled Dark-eyed Junco lands haphazardly on the nearest light post, something I’ve not seen before. Then off.
At 41 degrees, this is the kind of weather that ruins those January backpacking trips. Seemingly unconcerned, a local valagardo, no raincoat/no umbrella, slouches home from his job.
Eight Hardy Species
No let-up, but a lighter glow to the air just after 8 AM ushers a late and sparse morning flight sequence. Some birds just gotta fly, weather be damned!
Naturally, starlings. Maybe somewhat less active than normal, but still, zipping this way and that. At least they’re staying away from open perches.
The Rock Pigeon commute commences with nine, and then three more, at 8:12 AM. No lengthy, choreographed pirouettes this morning—just up, one circle, and away, disappearing into a close cloud.
Robins, of course. I’ve seen large flocks of American Robins flying in white-out conditions, so this shouldn’t be much of a challenge for a them. Three at 8:19; three more at 8:42.
A blue cup bobs downstream in the flood, off to join whatever garbage patch the Chesapeake feeds into.
Four loud Canada Geese emerge from the mist, honking vociferously, then invisible, off to the valley. Seven minutes later, they’re back, heading around Bald Eagle Mountain, following the line of the creek upstream.
A few House Finches and House Sparrows, and that’s it. By 8:52, the fun is over.
The rain keeps at it, though. Rapids are building here at the river-creek confluence. A quarter-mile downstream, our lifeline, the ancient Plummer’s Hollow Bridge over the Little Juniata, begins to strain, one flood closer to the end.
By late afternoon, the rain has abated and I’m off to survey waterfowl at the hidden pond. I figure it should be largely ice-free, while the nearby Little Juniata is no place for ducks: a perfect combo.
Sure enough, a crowd of waterfowl are hanging out at the other end of the long and narrow waterhole. Four take off in fear: wild Mallards, always skittish (I would be as well if I were that tasty!). The rest go about their business, swimming, feeding, resting, fighting. I don’t see any obvious non-Mallards, but I inch closer just to be thorough. Now I’m almost on top of them, but much higher up. They’re not interested in leaving.
Some commotion on the far side. Sounds like local farmers banging around, but it’s just several curious Herefords (I assume: my cattle ID skills are primitive) watching me from the top of the pond slope. In the water, persistence pays off with the re-appearance of a juvenile American Wigeon!
This one, I think, has got to be the self-same individual that was hanging out with a Mallard flock about this size in the first half of December, until inconveniently disappearing before Christmas Bird Count. Depending on water conditions, what might have been this very same flock of 40+ Mallards and one AMWI would move back and forth between the hidden pond and the river. An excellent species for the Plummer’s Hollow 200, the wigeon isn’t a puddle duck we get very often; it’s the first Code Red species in my 2023 planning spreadsheet, meaning I was afraid we might not detect it.
The sun considers a re-appearance as a morning flight reel runs backward: Canada Geese back toward town (I suppose they sleep at the Tyrone Reservoir, an off-limits haven), European Starlings back to Sinking Valley. As is usually the case, the last to go is the Bald Eagle, slowly over my head, upriver and then right, north. I’ll leave you with some photos from the walk.