Single Digits
The first—and possibly last—dawn below 10 degrees this year, and appropriately, it’s crystal clear. A good time to test winter gear and also how long my fingers can be exposed typing notes or snapping a pic before frostbite sets in. [Full disclosure: I don’t dictate notes or reconstruct events later, but always tap them on my phone as they are happening.]
12 in Tyrone, 11 at the bottom of the mountain. The road is completely clear, so I drive the 1.5 miles up to the parking spot out in the field by the garage. 6:30 AM and it’s 8 degrees. Absolutely still and quiet, with just the slightest dusting from yesterday’s squalls.
For a change, I pick a high-season sit spot, at a trail confluence in First Field with clear views northeast and southwest. A good location, I hope, to catch commuters from the spruce groves and other thickets to the bird feeder, while still keeping track of the starling rush hour.
Barking Trees
At 6:37 I jump at what sounds like the crack of a rifle. The temperature has dropped to seven. Off in the woods, another shot, and then another.
As this blog helpful explains, what I am hearing is freezing sap popping open tree bark. ‘The Lakota call February cannapopa wi, “moon when trees crack from the cold.”’ I couldn’t have said it any better, and it happens dozens of times over the next hour.
As for my gear, it’s holding up admirably. Baffin, North Face, hand-knit mittens over gloves, layers upon layers. I pace more than sit, true, but not enough to burn calories. (Later, when it warms to ten and I’m walking, it feels super toasty.) But hands can come out of glove-mittens for no more than 30 seconds at a time.
Hallucinating Calls
My brain expects to hear wispy ‘seeps’ and distant caws, and it almost seems like spectral birds are out and about. So different from my balcony, where I have to train my ears to separate the 10% that is bird from the 90% that is not, and snatch the bubbles of clear air from out of the noise. Here, not even trains or trucks can be heard: bark popping is all the sound I get.
At 6:47, I hear the unmistakable ‘fee-bee’ of a Black-capped Chickadee, not an auditory hallucination this time, and first-ever first dawn bird. Uncharacteristically early, but trailed only by a couple more minutes of spectral sound. Then I catch the shadow of a Dark-eyed Junco tumbling fast from the goldenrod toward the house—perhaps I had been hearing actual birds after all.
The first wake-up period occurs from 6:50 until 7: distant White-throated Sparrow, several juncos ticking, a far-off ‘dee-dee-dee,’ and the call of a Song Sparrow close by. American Crow and Common Raven are already about as well, cawing and croaking.
Dead silence again by 7:04, shattered by a very loud bark pop.
Drumming Downy
At 7:06, I am surprised to hear the soft drumming of a Downy Woodpecker. Once, and then once again a few minutes later. Drumming seems to be associated mostly with pair formation and other communication with mates, but I’m not sure what this is about, well ahead of the normal wake-up times of woodpeckers this time of year.
The European Starling commute is easy to watch across this slice of sky. Starting with a flock of 36 at 7:19, over 100 go by in all, a respectable number heading to Tyrone today.
Chickadees, titmice, and nuthatches are all out in force today, like every day. All three TCN are emitting what seems like their full repertoires of calls and songs.
The dawn wraps up by 7:45 with some cloud growth and a pair of Canada Geese over high from Sinking Valley toward Tyrone. A single House Finch flight call puts the stamp on it, and I’m off to see what is in the woods. Needless to say, the sunrise has been spectacular.
Only the Stalwarts
The spruce grove is empty and the deciduous woods are mostly empty as well. Even the Far Field is finally drained of White-throated Sparrows. The local Hairy Woodpecker is about, though, and not shy; also active are Downies, Red-bellied Woodpeckers (very cryptic!), and Pileated Woodpeckers. Otherwise, it’s the TCN, noisy as always. At one juncture, in response to a little pishing, a Tufted Titmouse comes in close, making its ‘chick-a-dee’ call, zipping around from perch to perch, and shivering/trembling its wings.
All the action is at the northwest corner of First Field, adjacent to some great cover: black haw, privet, multiflora rose, goldenrod, wild grape, generations of locust trunks, and barberry. The Eastern Towhees are still here, as are a large flock of juncos, some White-throated Sparrows , a single Field Sparrow, and at least five caroling American Tree Sparrows.
Back around the houses, the feeders are now bringing in a cloud of juncos, House Finches, Mourning Doves, American Goldfinches, and many others: a veritable velociraptor buffet in these lean times.
A flush of doves marks the arrival of a Cooper’s Hawk, which appears to have snagged its breakfast and is hunched briefly on a downed tree by the edge of the flat area below the house. I move to another room for a better view and possibly a pic, but already it’s gone. All the feeder birds are now in hiding. It takes a few minutes for things to stabilize and the prey to come into view again; presumably, the chickadees gave the all-clear and the woodpeckers unfroze.