Another 5:07 AM start, another 67-degree dawn, and once again, it rained a bit last night. TGIF. The crescent moon over Bald Eagle Mountain fades in and out of clouds, and to its south and a bit higher, Jupiter is circled by its four largest moons, Ganymede, Callisto, Europa, and Io, while another ninety remain invisible. American Robins are awake, of course, and a Gray Catbird clambers up to a stem somewhere and starts off its day at 5:11; snatches of Northern Cardinal follow a couple minutes later.
After a lengthy trio performance, a distant Indigo Bunting and then a nearby Song Sparrow make it a quintet at 5:28. The first Chimney Swift arrives silently, low over the confluence, at the half hour. Over the next few minutes, single swifts head off into the eastern sky.
American Goldfinches are next, starting up a twittering racket that doesn’t let up for hours, bouncing this way and that through the air and treetops. At 5:44, a Ruby-throated Hummingbird comes in for a sip, a Cedar Waxwing sings sneezily, and the last bat, a small one, flutters back home from downriver to a chimney somewhere.
Closing in on six, a Carolina Wren troupe is on the move, ‘teakettling’ and trilling non-stop, back and forth, down the river and up the creek. I count two, but there are probably more.
Trailing Clouds of Swifts
Right at 6, a long-tailed raptor emerges from the trees at the high point of Sapsucker Ridge, gliding and flapping in a gentle angle north toward town. Almost immediately, swifts spot it and converge from all directions. It speeds up to escape, flying faster and faster, but no match for the swifts, it finally plummets at close to a 90-degree angle down into Bald Eagle Creek, the fastest I’ve ever seen a Cooper’s Hawk go. The swifts veer off: back to gulping bugs.
The confluence woods, in the meantime, has come alive with Warbling Vireo song and the chips and song fragments of American Redstarts, Louisiana Waterthrushes, and Yellow Warblers, the latter two already engaging in long-distance migration, and the redstart now a common night mover, either long-distance or for molt. One warbler song, however, has me flummoxed. It’s neither of those three nor any of the other expected local residents. The most I can glimpse is a warbler-esque shape darting in and out among the sycamore, and then it hits me: Yellow-throated Warbler! This is the first-ever post-May detection for the species, and I would guess, since it’s not known to migrate long-distance so early in the season, that this one is dispersing from a local population somewhere. It may not have come far: there is good habitat for it within a mile upstream on both watercourses.
As I’m playing waterthrush and Yellow-throated Warbler chips for comparison, a curious House Sparrow flies up to perch on the chain-link balcony fence a couple feet away.
Goodbye to Grackleville
The rowdy summer encampment for young Common Grackles has been entirely abandoned. Occasionally, an adult will stop by, but otherwise, the confluence has become a much quieter place. Even the European Starlings have all but disappeared. But that’s fine; now it’s easier to focus on the others. Gray Catbirds, surprisingly shy for such vocal birds, are the now the loudest of my near neighbors, and this morning, one even ventures to perch on the yellow chain separating parking lots, before spooking and flying back to the safety of its creek-side territory.
A Tufted Titmouse has returned, singing ‘peter-peter-peter’ as if it’s winter. Chipping Sparrows are vocal now as well, still invisible but letting loose a steady stream of staccato chatter, while warblers chip from all about.
The sky grows gloomier, clouds enfolding the circling Rock Pigeons. Louisiana Waterthrushes are louder now, and when I play its song, one suddenly rockets out of the confluence and lands on the roof above me, then milliseconds later zooms a few inches from my face on its way toward the parking lot and on to Bald Eagle Creek, where I hear it for several minutes, calling and singing. A Ruby-throated Hummingbird floats under giant sycamore leaves, but as usual, I can’t figure out what it is after.
At 7:04 AM, with no sunrise in sight, a Common Raven makes slow circles in the somber sky.
Migrant Nights
Wednesday evening at 10:08, at least six Short-billed Dowitchers, and probably several more, went over in a nearly three-minute span, the record of the season. Thursday night was pretty quiet, with a Solitary Sandpiper and a Killdeer, both presumably migrants, and the occasional Wood Thrush and American Redstart. Friday night, however, is another story.
It starts at 10:43 PM with a zeep, the first of ten for the night. My educated guess would be Yellow Warblers and Louisiana Waterthrushes, but other candidates, at least for molt-migration, are Worm-eating, Cerulean, Blackburnian, and Magnolia warblers.
At 11:02, a Wood Thrush goes over, the first of seven for the night. A single Veery passes by at 1:38 AM, but no grosbeaks, tanagers, or other thrushes tonight.
Sparrows are out in force. While local Song, Chipping, and Field sparrows sing off and on in the night from the local field, the latter two also fly over, as well as July’s first Savannah Sparrow, and a Grasshopper Sparrow.
Eight American Redstarts go over, as well as two Ovenbirds, a small number of unidentified ‘up’ warber calls, and a few that can only be labeled ‘passerine.’ Even an American Goldfinch gets on the boards tonight: what I presume is a local bird calls a few times in flight at 2:09 AM.
On the ground, the only owl calling these days is the Barred. Cuckoos call occasionally and Eastern Wood-Pewees are still at it, but the Ovenbird nightsong has ceased.
Sandpipers in the Fog
Early Saturday morning, I reach the Plummer’s Hollow Crossing at 4:44 AM. The occasional car goes by on highway 453, but mostly it’s just the gentle trickle of Plummer’s Hollow Run below me. No light-triggered robins were calling in town, and nothing’s stirring here, except perhaps a mouse, or more likely the local white-tailed deer, moving about in the tangles below the crossing. Not even insects are buzzing, though a few fireflies are flashing up beyond the gate.
At 5 AM, after a short trains passes, it’s still so quiet that I catch an American Robin note from town. And then, straight ahead and above the river, a Spotted Sandpiper emits its two-note call. An instant later it calls again, and then a third time, well to the east. Each call seems lower in the sky than the other, so it’s possible this migrant is dropping down to feed and rest for awhile.
A new sound at 5:10, as the fog lifts slightly: sonar ticks from a bat making loops above the crossing. Finally, at 5:13, the first Wood Thrush flutes far off, and then a Killdeer calls from somewhere. As I stand between the crossing rails, the local deer stalks gingerly out of the forest, crossing the road some thirty feet in front of me, without ever sensing my presence. It continues for a few feet and then picks its way across the tracks, disappearing into the Laurel Ridge woods. An Eastern Wood-Pewee cries.
The other early risers start their late songs in the next 15 minutes, and once that chorus has died down, I walk toward Tyrone. A Northern Cardinal sings ‘chop-chop-chop’ as quickly as it can, then segues into ‘chew-chew-chew,’ as Scarlet Tanagers, Indigo Buntings, Gray Catbirds, Red-eyed Vireos, and Black-capped Chickadees echo from all sides. At one point, a fledgling American Robin flies out at me, all confused. I reach my destination: a wineberry patch, sole survivor of last year’s spraying, and good for an early breakfast.
Six AM is a long train. Instead of lifting, the fog has redoubled in intensity; I can see my hand in front of me, but not much more. A Yellow-billed Cuckoo calls.
Back near the crossing, I inspect the area that was alive with birds the other morning. They’re still coming today, including a juvenile Black-throated Green Warbler, nowhere close to the nearest adult nesting territory. A Cerulean Warbler sings: another species a bit out of range. Blue-gray Gnatcatchers, Louisiana Waterthrushes, Red-eyed Vireos, Black-capped Chickadees, and others are still darting about, but I can’t identify what they are eating. I do find that the small elms here are stripped bare of leaves, I presume by caterpillars, and the branches are speckled with bird droppings.
I do a quick survey of habitat the other direction, toward the valley. Down at the pond, a single young Wood Duck swims away from me through the duckweed, reaching the far shore and disappearing into the tall grass. Along the tracks, an occupied Cedar Waxwing nest sits inconspicuously in a tall tree, with several waxwings buzzing about, and one going in, but I can’t tell if there are nestlings yet.
At 7:30, the list stands at 48. It’s time to brave the bugs and head up the mountain.
Phoebe and Wren Extravaganza
Up on top, the sun is already breaking through, though fog periodically makes a comeback.
Without being conscious of it, I break the all-time hotspot high counts for Carolina Wren (14) and Eastern Phoebe (12) this morning. Phoebes are all over the wires, and wrens are everywhere. A concerted effort, however, could probably document tow or three times those numbers in the hotspot right now.
A bit later, the Eastern Bluebird family is out and about the wires, field, and black walnuts. American Crows are kicking up a fuss, but I think it has to do with crow fledglings. It might, however, be involved with local Cooper’s Hawks. Not long after I start my circuit of First Field, one goes by with a bird in its talons, heading north into the woods. Later, up in the spruce grove, I spot it or another heading south.
The sheer number of adult and juvenile birds in the ecotone between fields and woods of the west side of First Field is staggering. Indigo Buntings, Field Sparrows, and Common Yellowthroats are the most numerous, but families of just about everything else are about, and not shy. The warbler catalpa next to the powerline seems like a good place to play a little screech-owl, and when I do, the thicket comes alive with most of the local breeding species, including this Hooded Warbler:
The one warbler I can’t detect today, of the common ones, is the Blackburnian. A few days ago I heard one at the confluence, so I wonder whether they have all left their breeding grounds up here. Another big miss, both at the river and up here, is the Baltimore Oriole. They have either gone elsewhere or become incredibly cryptic, like the Brown Thrasher, which I don’t even bother to look for today. But at least the Golden-crowned Kinglets are still about and vocal in the spruce grove. No other diurnal indications of migration today, though: no Least Flycatcher or Red-breasted Nuthatch yet, but when I return for a final balcony sit around 10:30 AM, the chips of Yellow Warblers remind me that it’s still on. The morning’s species total, helped by both vulture species sunning and wing-fanning on the towers, is 64.
Heron Storm
Our bedroom AC unit blocks out all noise, but it must have stormed last night. The balcony is soaked when I stumble out with Sunday’s coffee at the customary 5:07 AM. It’s 68 degrees with a slight breeze, mostly cloudy, and no fog yet.
Only one robin is singing, and that faintly, this morning. Indeed, the dawn chorus is so quiet today that I check for storms, and sure enough, they’re supposedly on their way. At 5:30 AM, the first close bird sounds off—a catbird, naturally.
By 5:45, clouds are pushing in from the Gap and starting to creep over the tops of the mountains. American Goldfinches are active, as always. There are far more than last year; they seem to have replaced the swallows, somehow. I check a morning balcony list from a year ago, and sure enough, I wasn’t imagining things. Every morning last July, a family of Barn Swallows and a family of Northern Rough-winged Swallows was hanging about. This year, only a lone Barn Swallow remains nearby, while rough-wings go by occasionally. But the goldfinches! Last year, I was seeing one or two go over in a morning, so I don’t think they nested nearby. This year, at least a dozen hang out in the confluence, attending several nests, and many more are elsewhere in the hotspot. I can’t wait until the fall. Last November, I counted over 80 in the mornings; who knows how many will be about this year. I once saw a flock of hundreds dripping from the trees in a nearby state park, truly a sight to behold!
Around six, faint peeping in the nest become a discernible House Finch chirp series from one of the young. At 6:07, Fern shows up for the morning’s first regurgitation, and it gets loud quickly. All four nestlings look healthy and strong. Fern leaves at 6:16 and is fed by Fernando on a wire, then she takes off somewhere and Fernando regurgitates briefly to his offspring. Around 6:30, Fern returns and settles into the nest for awhile. I notice she is pecking at the nestlings, and appears to be eating something: mites or other vermin, perhaps.
A Belted Kingfisher rattles once at 6:24 along the river somewhere. To trigger Murphy’s Law, I type quiet Sunday, people and birds, no surprises in my notes. Works like a charm: at 6:37, I get as good a view as I’m likely to get of a Green Heron flying slowly upstream above Bald Eagle Creek. I hear it call once.
Two minutes later, there’s an odd call overhead, not a gull, but something interesting. I look up in time to see a Great Egret disappearing west over the rooftop. First-ever hotspot record for July! What is it about storms and heron movements? The Warbling Vireo begins singing finally at 6:48, not yet a molt-migrant, and the Barn Swallow has a slight altercation with a Chimney Swift, perhaps over a bug. Far-off, a Pileated Woodpecker calls.
The herons have made me curious. I decide to drive to the bridge to see what else is about, and as I’m leaving the parking lot, two Great Blue Herons fly up from Bald Eagle Creek to the north and continue low over town. I stop on the bridge, scanning upriver and down, and though no waterfowl are to be seen in the turbulent, muddy current, the day’s third Great Blue Heron flies off downstream.
Carolina Wren troop, or troupe? Feels like a bit of both sometimes