As Christmas Bird Count draws closer, the weather, begrudgingly, is turning more wintry.
On Monday, the dawn temperature is in the upper 40s after another day and night of torrential rains, but I feel an icy breeze pushing down the tracks already by the time I pull up to the gate. On top, it’s howling against Sapsucker Ridge. I trudge over to the catalpa sit again the corner of First Field, and it’s well after 7 before the first, sparse calls of wind-buffeted White-throated Sparrows can be heard through the gloom. A Swamp Sparrow, welcome visitor, calls a bit later among the white-throat whistles and the clanks of Song Sparrows.
Last year, the Hermit Thrush spending December in the thick tangles to the south of the powerline was already gone by mid-month’s Christmas Bird Count. This year, one isn’t going anywhere: in response to a pish, it comes clucking out of the grape tangles and hops about agitatedly on the nearest locust branches a few feet away, before retreating several yards when it sees what I am.
In the night, the news comes from the Bald Eagle raptor watch point 20 miles northeast of here: 30 Golden Eagles came through in a late-season push. Lacking good winds, far more than is usually the case by now had become bottled up to the north.
A small group of us chats about what’s around, and other logistics for Saturday’s big bash. A Golden Eagle is looking a lot more likely after today’s news. Red-headed Woodpecker at Fort Roberdeau? Check. Flyover Pine Siskins? Listen hard before 8 AM. Purple Finches? Hard to know. Why do we keep missing Northern Flicker? How can you tell the difference between an American Crow and a Fish Crow? And, perhaps most critically, we move the time of the Count Supper back to 6 PM, to allow for dusk scouting of Short-eared Owls and other eventualities. Every minute counts.
Bare Balcony Minimum
Tuesday’s dawn is blustery and colder, a bit below freezing, and with gray and flurries, the birds are mostly down and out. Not until 7:13 AM does anything stir: an American Robin, barely clearing the parking lot, up from the Creek and down to the Confluence. A few minutes later, a Northern Cardinal ticks a few times, and then all is silent until it decides to tick again, eight minutes later.
Nothing, then 15 minutes after that, a tight, rotating flock of 49 Rock Pigeons makes its way up and out. The flurries close in, another robin heads south, and at 23 minutes until 8 I return to the warmth, to the faint sounds of a European Starling and a House Finch.
By Tuesday night, we’ve nailed down the route logistics for Plummers’ Hollow. My brother Steve, in from Wisconsin with my niece, is going to hit every nook and tangle of the mountain, while Mom will hang with Olga, my mother-in-law, watching the feeders and covering the route to the Far Field and back. Paola and I will cover Tyrone and east, through the Gap and on downriver along the Little Juniata, in search of waterfowl escaping the likely-frozen valley ponds.
The Many Voices of the Hermit
On Wednesday, winter’s eve, I hit the trail with fitness gear I’ve gotten for one of my 2024 challenges. It’s back to crystal clear and 20s, and the top of the mountain is dusted with a half-inch of snow. Laurel Ridge, then the Far Field, in utter silence: later, I find out that a derailment in Altoona has left the tracks empty.
Impeccable timing. I’m winded and ready to take a breather at the top of First Field by the Spruce Grove, right at seven, as the first sparrows start up. Predictably, they’re white-throats, Songs, and Dark-eyed Juncos, but a ‘reep’ among the ‘Sweet Canada’ whistles gives away an Eastern Towhee as well, down below in the blackberry patches of the neck. Every year, more and more spend the winter. From that direction, a Hermit Thrush’s cluck can also be heard.
And then, to my right and behind, in the spruce, a low, ascending whistle. From my left, a lightly ascending whistle. Then a thrush-y exclamation of some sort. As I’ve been guessing, Hermits are present in high numbers this year, giving even their ‘flight calls.’ The spectral chorus continues for a minute or so, then ceases.
Down the field, among the twitter of American Goldfinches, not one but two towhees hop up out of the blackberries among a cloud of white-throats. A little farther, yesterday’s Hermit clucks: four for the morning. As I reach the garage, a fluttering, mute flock of some 44 robins floats up from Laurel Ridge or Sinking Valley, then, bird by bird, drops down into the forest over by Bird Count Trail, presumably for a morning feast of wild grapes. I’ve not been over there in weeks, but we’ll see what Steve turns up on Saturday. Here by the houses, an American Tree Sparrow can be heard, and then a Pine Siskin goes over.
Back in town, among the pigeons, the pigeon hawk: a Merlin flies straight and not too hurriedly southeast and out of town, another good one for the first day of Count Week.
In the evening, news arrives of the near-record-high numbers from the neighboring Huntingdon CBC on December 17, replete with Purple Finches, Red-breasted Nuthatches, Northern Flickers, Common Mergansers, and others that are on our BOLO list. Last year, our Culp CBC got more species than any other count in the area, an all-time high of 72 (including, of all things, a Cape May Warbler), but that will be tricky in 2023, with Huntingdon reporting 76 species.
The Huntingdon species number is in fact only 74. The compiler forgot to subtract one count-week sp. and also "blackbird sp.", which of course doesn't count in the species tally. Re: Hermit Thrush - we *(Huntingdon) had 49 this year. Last year 51, and in 2019 we had 71, which is the all-time high for a PA CBC. HETH is one of the clearest trends in increasing #s of half-hardy species. While I detect these mild winters, having more "chucking" thrushes around is some compensation.