After days of rain, blue skies again and all the smog has vanished by Thursday afternoon. At close to 4 I sit out for an hour in the 50-degree heat. The storms have brought down a long snag that pokes into the river below the confluence, great for next year’s perches, if it sticks around.
House Finches are out and about, and American Robins are exclaiming—a welcome sound, though I suppose they haven’t stop making noise through the recent deluge, even though I couldn’t listen. Toward the end, 25 House Finches swirl back into the town to roost from some feeding spot downriver. In the fading light, a pair of Downy Woodpeckers alights on the 10:30 poplar, still raucous after the rest of the birds have retired.
At 4:51 PM, the last robin returns to roost.
Friday.
A bit after 8 AM, I rush up the steepest part of Laurel Ridge that I can find, previewing a 2024 challenge that has to do with dropping a few pounds and shrinking a waistline. Common Ravens croak overhead, and as I scramble up the last bit of moss, robin after robin takes off from the leaf duff along the top. Meanwhile, a family’s tragedy unfolds in the ends of the Earth, on the edge of Tierra del Fuego, and we are left staring into the Abyss.
Saturday.
In the morning, as the darkness spreads, we attend the last rites of a dear uncle here in Tyrone, peace granted after 87 years, a loving family, words of wisdom, hymns of praise. After the service, we make our excuses and rush back home to wait for a call that never comes. Bit by bit, the surreal feeling dissipates, and we are left with the impression of heroism on the part of the Chilean medical community, and on the part of my daughter and her remaining friends, translating for grieving parents while tending to their own well-being.
On the Last Day
The year draws to a close under breezy, cloudy skies, in the upper 30s, Rock Pigeons already in the air before 7:20 AM. Over beyond the Burger King moon, a robin, just like last year, sings its heart out, as others cluck and whisper here and there about town.
At 7:38, the largest flock of corvids I’ve ever seen around here comes out of nowhere, like Crebain from Dunland. Some 80 American Crows, with 20 larger ravens dancing and diving around among them, fly in a twisting motion along the crest of Bald Eagle Mountain. Taking their time, handful by handful, they dip down out of sight on the far side.
Last night, among the reports of the last few Golden Eagles heading south on this ridge to cap a banner December, I perked up at the mention of a very large number of Red-winged Blackbirds moving into the area. At 7:45 AM, 50 Red-wings, perhaps from those new arrivals, rushes over my head and directly through the Gap, followed by another 40 a few minutes later. The robin continues to sing and shout.
At 8:04, nine Mallards fly up out of the Gap, heading upriver, quacking their hearts out.
I go out for one last look at the pond. In the Redstart Swamp, a Red-bellied Woodpecker is still hanging out a week after I first saw it here. In all of 2023, this is only the second time that I’ve seen Red-bellies forage along the river.
The Green-winged Teal is still here with a few of its giant cousins, all quite leery of me today. I leave them in peace, but there’s none to be had—more Mallards come raining down into the pond at my back, and loud, angry quacking and splashing ensues.
The adult Bald Eagle passes silently overhead, heading upstream, perhaps already attending a nest. Down in the riverside tangles, odd ascending and descending notes and a long cluck not quite right for a wren matches Hermit Thrush, as the barely-audible sounds of Brown Creepers and Golden-crowned Kinglets accompany tiny shapes out foraging in this dull, dark morning.
Back in town, the robin is still singing, still exclaiming, the alpha and omega of 2023.
Postscript
Thanks so much to everyone who has stuck with the Plummer’s Hollow 200 to the bitter end. Bird Mountain will continue as I am able, as well as some other content, such as Birds of Plummer’s Hollow, a three-year project to provide species accounts of the 222 or 223 species (and counting) in this corner of the world.
Stay tuned for more facts and figures about 2023 - my goal for completing the analysis and uploading of the NFCs is the end of February, after which time those of you with an interest in such things will be able to see some graphs and other cool stuff that reflects a year’s worth of data.
Finally, January 1 begins the book manuscript project based on this year (‘Big Year in a Small Space’). If you feel so inclined, please email me suggestions about content, themes, format: any and all reader input will be much appreciated! I am aiming for the type of audience who is attracted to the movie The Big Year, so definitely beyond just birders or even just nature people. There would naturally be a good dose of what fellow geographer Alan McEachren calls “geo-birding,” and an emphasis on “small is beautiful”—why and how to delve into a single place, rather than rushing about, with the consequent tiny amount of carbon involved in driving back and forth to the farm a couple times a week (20lbs of carbon/gallon of gasoline for about ten total gallons used).
Happy New Year!!!
I heard about your blog very late and tried to read from the beginning. What I read I really liked. I would have really enjoyed reading about your journey as you experienced it, daily. I had a similar effort this year with a small park near my house. I focused my birding there and increased the species count of the hotspot by 10 or so birds. I monitored 28 nest sites that I found in the early spring before I had to begin another birding project. I agree that it's good to explore where you live and I am doing more of that. I will, however, be traveling this year back and forth to the Eastern Shore to help complete the Maryland & DC Breeding Bird atlas in its final year. Good luck with all of your projects.