It's All Uphill from Here
After this morning, it will start to get lighter a wee bit earlier every day, until that cruel dawn two months from now when we go into Daylight Savings Time. The birds will care less about it, but “losing” an hour does play havoc with our rigid human schedules. As for the Senate’s bill to create permanent daylight savings, that has still not passed the House, thank goodness.
Buffeted
You already know I’m quite hopeful about these windy dawns. The brisk west wind is clearing things out—a breeze on my balcony, trees swaying up on the ridge, clouds moving at a good clip. An optical illusion makes it look like the clouds are all funneling into a vortex formed by the encounter of Bald Eagle and Brush mountains at the east end of the Gap.
The wind is an invitation to some and a challenge to others. The raven pair - not the tannery soul but the couple taken to dancing along the ridgetop - seize the opportunity by 7:24. They’re up and about, diving, circling, climbing, not closely choreographed but definitely together. At 7:40, the Red-tailed Hawk that roosts on Bald Eagle Mountain near the towers takes to the air and cruises down-ridge toward the Gap: I’m not sure if it’s the same one that also hunts Plummer’s Hollow, or another. At these January dawns, I only see it from my balcony when the wind is up.
Five Mallards out of the Gap in tight formation (7:23), taking a right (my left) and heading up Bald Eagle Creek. For much of the fall and early winter, Mallards and sundry other waterfall were always the first risers, their wing whistles low over my head as they dispersed to early feeding locales. These days, I see at most a handful, even though local numbers haven’t drop. At 7:58, a single male Common Merganser also comes out of the Gap from somewhere downriver—an unpredictable occurrence. Females are elsewhere this time of year (I last saw one on the river way above the Plummer’s Hollow bridge on November 28th) but males are hanging out somewhere nearby. I see them enough to know they haven’t left, but I can’t really make sense of their comings and goings through the hotspot.
By 8 AM, the east and the north are looking hopeful indeed! It’s probably trite to say that you value sunrises more when you get so few of them, but it’s true. We’ve had several failed attempts since that glorious January 1st, but the clouds, fog, and rain have won out for almost two weeks. I know there are other factors, but I would still like to see if a clear dawn encourages more bird activity.
Today is not that day. The species number goes up to 12, from nine, yesterday, but given the truly extraordinary nature of this sunrise, I would have thought more would show up. That single American Crow, struggling against the wind high over Sapsucker: the main crow flock must be out in Sinking Valley somewhere, or on Eden Hill. The Rock Pigeons: despite great flying conditions, only a couple of small groups commute, so whatever was drawing them over the mountain isn’t a big priority now, because there are still over 300 of them in town. Even the starlings barely show today, though I notice that they invade the sycamores right after I go in around 8:20.
Alebrije
At the closing bell, I’m out the door on foot to hoof it the mile down to the pond. I try to check it every couple of days; this will become easier when the days grow longer, but for now, it’s a narrow window until dusk. The weather’s stayed warm enough that it hasn’t frozen, but as usual, the waterfowl are crowded at the far end.
I am lucky to get these photos at several hundred yards. As always, I feel the need to get closer for an accurate tally, as I suspect I might get a Mallard high count for the hotspot. Closer, I count 69: high count confirmed! When I draw too close, hoping for a higher-resolution Wood Duck shot, the squeaking legs of my tripod set them all off to flight.
My friend David comments that the woodie looks like an alebrije, one of those folk-art Mexican sprites. I honestly can’t say I disagree: what’s a bird this beautiful doing in such a gray/brown landscape, anyway?
Hurrying back, I see two American Robins land above the pond, then spiral off, over the valley. A Cooper’s Hawk appears and coasts up Laurel Ridge and out of sight.