No one remembers it like this, ever. After days of rain, a blanket of benzene and formaldehyde out of the North Woods settles on us just as the rain clouds clear out. Not the pleasingly carcinogenic odor of wood smoke, this—rather, it’s what happens when ultraviolent radiation and volatile organic chemicals get together. Thursday, our air quality index reached the 160s, breathable but not pleasant. I am going to sit out in the evening anyway, as it’s a very special evening. Gin will help take the edge off the PM2.5.
The Longest Dusk
The sun officially sets today at 8:49:46, tied with yesterday (when it rained) for the latest of the year, and two days shy of the halfway point for the Plummer’s Hollow 200 Big Year. After today, I can truly say it’s all downhill. But with the air clammy (even at 72!) and poisonous, the last rays of the sun are replaced today by a gradual, grayish fading—not exactly what I had pictured for the heart of midsummer.
At about a quarter after seven, some Turkey Vultures drift over in the haze, the first I have seen them in days, with all the storms and rain. A Common Raven croaks, and a Downy Woodpecker trills from somewhere up the creek. A Broad-winged Hawk coasts down from Brush Mountain across the Gap and disappears into the forests of Bald Eagle Mountain, quite the cryptic species in summer, but in a few months, it will be kettling over the towers in the hundreds, migrating south: and we have front-row seats. (Let me know if you’d like to reserve a spot.)
Hairy Eyeball
Quietly, without warning, a local raven—I suspect it’s my old pal who lives in the junkyard across the river—lands on the roof of the brick apartment building across the parking lot. When I shout “Hey there!” it turns its head slightly to look at me, then goes back to the execution of its plan, whatever that is. I almost fancied I could see myself reflected in its eye. After a couple minutes of fidgeting, it flies off toward the library, out of sight.
At a quarter to eight, my Poe reverie is broken by a noisy crowd of some 25 Common Grackles dropping down gracefully (for grackles) to the tallest sycamore in Grackleville, still their favorite spot to perch.
Fern seems to have grown accustomed to me, and rushes quickly back to her nest every time I sit down after pacing. A Gray Catbird has started up, but most of the rest of the birds have died down except for the ever-chittering Chimney Swifts, an occasional American Robin, and frenetic American Goldfinches chasing each other about and landing at the parking lot puddles. The Warbling Vireo starts up as well, but he doesn’t last long. One of the goldfinches, over by the 10th Street bridge, launches into an odd call-song combo that I’ve not heard before. The juvenile robin with its fading spots, ever silent, perches on the wire opposite, facing me, then flies off north, erratically.
Wind-Down to Oblivion
By eight I’m feeling dizzy, whether from the gin or the smoke it’s hard to tell. A European Starling putters about in the parking lot, having snatched something for food or nesting material. When I examine the zoom photo, it turns out it’s the former: a tasty morsel of dragonfly or some other long-winged insect it wears like some mustachioed starling-of-paradise:
An eerie calm descends on the town; I think folks are mostly avoiding being outdoors. At 8:45 the robins realize it’s time and kick up the action. There is call and song, chasing and fighting and plummeting into roost trees. At nine sharp the juvenile robin, looking lost as always, lands again on the wire in the same place it always lands, the second time in three minutes. An adult flies quickly by and calls out to it, and it takes off, following close behind as if it had been waiting for the signal; they disappear downtown.
Chimney Swifts are beginning to swirl closer; from this vantage point it seems like the same swifts so I am careful not to count them twice, but in reality I’m in the flightpath for a long parade of them coming back through the Gap from the farming alleys to the east. Had the weather been decent, I would have watched this from the Plummer’s Hollow Crossing. As it is, I get to watch them drop bodies-first into their chimneys and disappear.
Of all things, a Belted Kingfisher rattles along the river somewhere at 8:59. Catbirds, swifts, and robins make it past the hour, and at 9:07, the nearest Song Sparrow sings for the very last time. The last swift practically brushes the parking lot at 9:11, and a couple Gray Catbirds fade out their final meows at 9:13. Quickly after that, the robins die down, and then call only infrequently when disturbed by something, as it all fades to black.
Up on the mountain, the fields jammed with birdlife young and old make for a loud and complex dusk chorus that winds down abruptly right at nine. After that, the Eastern Towhees and Eastern Wood-Pewees keep it going until a bit past 9:15, and then the darkness brings out an Eastern Whip-Poor-Will who sings close and then far off, far off and then close, on and on throughout the night.
The mountain nights these days are starting to hush. Wood-pewees call, but not so frequently, and both species of cuckoos are also beginning to quiet down. A Song Sparrow sings single songs at rare intervals, while several male Field Sparrows continue their search for nocturnal liaisons. Nothing, not even a Green Heron, calls from the skies.
An early morning airport drop-off on Friday allows me a dawn hike from the garage back to town, via the Hollow and the tracks. It’s in the low fifties and the haze has been replaced by breathable fog, or perhaps it’s smog.
The chorus is still nearly complete, and the Hollow is alive with Acadian Flycatchers, Wood Thrushes, and Scarlet Tanagers. Louisiana Waterthrushes aren’t singing, but they are calling boisterously, presumably in the last stages of preparation for their ultra-early returns to Latin America. Prominently absent, however, is the Ovenbird, which a few weeks ago was a majority voice. I only hear part of a song, and Mom confirms later that she’s hearing very few as well. I expect to start seeing them on the night spectrum next week, because I think they engage in molt-migration. Last year, Ovenbirds were among the earliest species to call in flight again after breeding season, a month before the main southward migration.
Breathe
Throughout the day, the air quality worsens, with the AQI eventually topping 200. Maps show that the worse part of the smoke blanket has now infiltrated central Pennsylvania, so we have the distinction of experiencing some of the worst air on Earth, on par with Delhi (a place where folks had in their lives never seen the stars until the pandemic brought smog-causing traffic to a halt). Even Paola, who was raised in Mexico City, is starting to feel the ill effects.
The smoggy moon is too faint for a good photo. I wasn’t going to sit outside, but when I went to check on Fern’s nest—still not hatched—I heard an unusual peent for late June. A Common Nighthawk is somewhere above town, another tantalizing indication that the species may still breed somewhere around here. So I make myself a gin and tonic and settle down to see what else is about.
I don’t have long to wait. Barn Swallows are unusually active this evening, and I think I spot a pair of juveniles by their stubby tails and erratic movements as they learn the best maneuvering tactics to maximize their success at bug-snatching. One takes a short cut, hassling an adult in mid-air to give up its bug.
As I listen to a repetitive Northern Cardinal—absent last tonight—a commotion kicks up around the confluence. A group of loud and angry Barn Swallows and Chimney Swifts is pursuing a long-winged falcon over Bald Eagle Creek, and they all head north out of sight. It was a Merlin, the first summer record ever for the hotspot! I check eBird and see that Merlins have been reported in scattered local spots this June, mostly up on the Allegheny Front to the west. I didn’t get a good enough look to garner more specifics about this one, but it would seem from indications in recent years that one of more Merlin pairs nests in the area. I’m not sure how far they roam in early summer, and with few birders out and about, it’s probably underreported. Last year, a pair seems to have nested in Altoona.
I would hesitate to conclude that this evening’s unusual sightings are associated with the smoke, but I’m open to the possibility. At least it’s nice to see that the Mourning Doves are spending time with their offspring: one parent perches close to a near-grown fledgling, facing away from me, while another sits not far away, and some starlings, Barn Swallows, and House Finches also hang out on the wires for awhile. An Indigo Bunting gives an uncharacteristically loud and raspy call, which to my ears sounds desperate, from over by the confluence. I’ve never heard it so loud or so close to our balcony before.
The guano rock that has re-emerged in the river is occupied off and on by an Eastern Phoebe. And the juvenile robin is still around. But I have inhaled enough of Canada for one night, so I leave the air to the Barn Swallows as they continue their ungainly maneuvers.