The severe thunderstorm came as promised at some point in the wee hours of Friday morning. At 5:07 AM it’s 60 and calm, and everything’s soaked. I can’t imagine being a young House Finch huddled in the swinging fern through all that.
It takes until 5:18 for the American Robins to get revved up, eight minutes beyond that for the first Gray Catbird, and the Northern Cardinal isn’t vocal until 5:32. A faint bit of light expands to the north, and one by one, the locals shake off the storm and get to work. Bottles clatter into the VFW dumpster.
At 5:41, a Louisiana Waterthrush sounds off from Bald Eagle Creek, first call notes and then abruptly, the full song. It’s temporarily bereft of its favorite habitat, as stream and river are both swollen as high as they get. A second waterthrush sings from just above the 10th Street bridge, and a Carolina Wren soon joins in.
The first Ruby-throated Hummingbird appears around this time and quickly starts fighting with another.
Empty Nest Syndrome
By six, there is still no sound from nest. I stand on my toes to peer in, and it appears to be abandoned. I picture frantic nestlings exploding in all directions into the teeth of the storm. But Fern, who has somehow been nearby without my seeing her, shows up on a near wire and begins to call. I think, that’s gotta be tough to lose three-quarters of your brood like that. Nevertheless, as soon as I’m at a safe distance, she flies into the nest, and damned if after a few seconds her offspring don’t begin to peep. Somehow, they had crawled away from the nest and hidden deeper in the fern, I guess.
After a few minutes, she flies off, presumably to find the day’s first meal. The hulking nestlings haul themselves up, and seeing me standing not far away, all three erupt into the skies without the advantage of mom or dad to coach them. Two flutter successfully across the parking lot and long garage into the bushes along the creek; the third banks right and disappears into the grass on the other side of the dumpster. Within seconds, Mom is back, and checking on the progress of the crash-lander.
I’m not sure she figured out where the other two went, because not too many minutes later she shows up at the nest again, making what seem like anxious sounds. I trust she’ll sort it out, though; the fledglings all looked to be in good shape despite the storm, and can likely make enough noise that someone will feed them. Later, I spot Fern and what I think is last night’s fledgling hanging out where it landed last night in the silver maple.
Storm Birds
My main interest this dawn is spotting anything unusual that got stirred up by the weather. The only bird in that department is a displaced Great Blue Heron that flaps languorously up over the confluence and continues over Bald Eagle Creek, but it’s not likely to find a good spot to fish for many hours, until the flood subsides. Meanwhile, the sky clears its clouds and fog out quickly, and a glorious morning kicks off. Pairs of Rock Pigeons are courting, elaborate and complex displays of climbs and dives, wing touching and tandem flight. In a break in the highway roar, a Scarlet Tanager can be heard.
At 6:50, wonder of wonders, a scraggly-looking Canada Goose flies silently northwest out of the Gap. Its first appearance in 11 days, on the last day of the eBird week, was enough to fill in the final gap in its bar chart, making it the newest bona fide permanent resident of the hotspot.
A Change in the Weather
The heat, storms and humidity have ceded to a more pleasant clime. Saturday morning dawns clear as a bell, 60 but noticeably drier than previous days. The air is crisp enough up in the field that barely a single insect is making noise, which is fine with me.
At 5:04 AM, an Eastern Wood-Pewee sings faintly, and shortly thereafter, a clear, descending note rings out overhead somewhere. I can’t quite make out what it is, but when I check it later on the recording, it turns out to be one of the many nocturnal flight calls of a Rose-breasted Grosbeak, likely descending from a migratory journey into the woods on this mountain or another nearby. Two more call in over the next minute.
Deer crack and crunch, and distant traffic can be heard on the interstate. As the sky clears, Jupiter is left alone with the first clucks of Wood Thrushes. Then, at 5:11, an Eastern Towhee’s reep starts it off. The wichity-wichity of a Common Yellowthroat follows, then a towhee’s drink your tea! Soon, the woods are echoing with Wood Thrushes, Field Sparrows, Indigo Buntings, and Northern Cardinals (birdy-birdy-birdy).
I remember to turn on Merlin, and it quickly notes a phantom Ruffed Grouse. Otherwise, it does well, but I’m a bit dubious about a Golden-crowned Kinglet down here near the powerline, quite far from the spruce grove. Nevertheless, a bit later on I do hear one singing from the locusts nearby.
I’m sitting in a certain sweet spot for fall migrants, where some brush pokes out into First Field at its most narrow point. The local warblers are already in full swing—American Redstart, Black-and-white Warbler, American Redstart, Black-throated Green Warbler, Worm-eating Warbler, Hooded Warbler—when I hear a high-pitch, rapid, staccato call that I can’t sort out in my head right away. I go over all the warblers that should be around, but none of them work. Merlin’s no help, but I realize that Tennessee Warbler fits. I had no idea they could be back so early, but Birds of the World assures me that there is an early movement southward from boreal breeding territories in mid-July, particularly among failed breeders. This has to be one such individual, weeks earlier than the previous earliest Fall record from the hotspot, but exactly in one of this species’ favored locations on the property. As is typical for Tennessees, this one is shy and quickly moves off, never affording me a glimpse.
Around six, I move over to the warbler catalpa and play some screech-owl. Not long thereafter, an Eastern Screech-Owl calls back from the depths of the Sapsucker Ridge woods.
Closer at hand, the birds go crazy, led by dizzying numbers of Indigo Buntings, Field Sparrows, Red-eyed Vireos, and Common Yellowthroats. A shy and barely vocal Baltimore Oriole appears at the top of a tree, several Rose-breasted Grosbeaks flit about, and I spot the first molt-migrant Warbling Vireo hanging out with a REVI.
Hummer Bonanza
Today turns out to be the Day of the Hummers. A few cruise by at dawn, and later, when I am in the spruce grove, a few more are buzzing about. For some reason I can’t discern, they seem drawn to the spruce tips. I sit down at the bench by my late father’s grave, and play a snatch of kinglet. Almost immediately, three GCKIs show up, making four for the day. These are quite likely the parents and the offspring from this summer’s brood. A Blackburnian Warbler chips—nice to know that at least one has stayed behind here.
As the species numbers increase, two birds are missing: the highly cryptic Brown Thrasher, and the Ovenbird. I don’t even hear any chips. I walk Laurel Ridge Trail, marveling at the mushrooms exploding through moss, but while wood-pewees and vireos are rife, not an Ovenbird is to be heard.
At the power, at least four hummers are about, finding something to eat among the scrub oaks. I hang out for a bit to snag some valley-edge species. A Northern Mockingbird sings from below, a small group of Red-winged Blackbirds are lodged in a dead tree, and several swallow species show up, hunting above the electric lines. A Red-tailed Hawk perches on a pole lower down, while a Broad-winged Hawk calls repeatedly.
Outside Dave’s house, the bergamot is buzzing with hummers, including a male in breeding plumage. The total reaches 13 for the day, an all-time hotspot record and just a few shy of a county record for Ruby-throated Hummingbirds.
The Flock
At the mouth of the hollow, Sapsucker Ridge plunges to the road and stream. An old apple tree grows next to a dead tree with several branches that protrude into the parking area. I’m about to continue driving to the gate when I hear one too many calls in the trees roundabout. I play a little screech-owl and a mixed flocks materializes from all directions and congregate in the apple tree and its dead neighbor. I count 24 species, dominated by American Robins, Downy Woodpeckers, Tufted Titmice, White-breasted Nuthatches, Carolina Wrens, Red-eyed Vireos, and Worm-eating Warblers, most with adults and juveniles. Most exciting, the season’s first molt-migrant Canada Warbler comes into full few, an adult female or an immature, lacking the male’s black collar. This species breeds exclusively in higher-elevation forest than we have in the hotspot, then disperses to low elevation woods. I believe it will be another month until we start to get long-distance migrants.