The One Nice Day
The Plummer’s Hollow road is still icy, so it’s a walk-up Saturday. I’m trudging the two mile ascent to my powerline sit spot through all three twilights, trying to time it so I catch the first ‘seeps.’ Looks like it’s going to be a tight one—as I turn left from the hollow onto an old charcoal haul road to the top of Laurel Ridge, I can see that for once, we are going to have an actual January sunrise, which means early calls.
From the top, I can hear the roaring of the west wind back over on Sapsucker Ridge, which feels its full force. Here, the wind is confused, eddying from different directions, and not feeling particularly cold.
Hapless Me
I don’t even have time to get my gear set up before the music starts. At 6:55 AM, a pair of Common Ravens comes in close overhead (close as in 50 feet away), croaking to each other and possibly at me, gamboling in the breeze, then off over Sinking Valley. I think I get a video, but later, I can’t find it. Sublime memory, nevertheless.
I also try to tape the chorus of ‘seeps,’ clinks, and chips from the awakening crowd of White-throated Sparrows, Song Sparrows, and Dark-eyed Juncos, but I check later and the spectrum is blank. WTF. Still haven’t gotten the chair clicked together; the camera falls into the wet snow.
Finally, I get situated. The first wave is gone—literally, they all woke up, exited the scrub oak thicket, and headed directly to Mom’s feeder. But there’s no let-up in today’s awakening, as I try to note the birds and also revel in the most spectacular sunrise of 2023.
An American Crow already at 7:07, along with the first gobbles from a Wild Turkey. The Hermit Thrush signals its presence—still here! Five minutes later, a starling vanguard whooshes over, heading to Tyrone.
For a minute or two, it’s dogs versus crows as the farms wake up. Sound is excellent today; the wind is swirling down to the valley, picking up the calls, and bringing them to me.
Carolina Wren, then Black-capped Chickadee and Tufted Titmouse, an Eastern Screech-Owl far off, and Blue Jays, all before 7:20.
Mockingbird Gonna Mock
I never really sat down, but the chair’s a good place for my pack, anyway, away from the two inches of snow, getting wetter as the mercury hits 41.
I turn to the left and find that 14 American Robins have been watching me. They somehow alighted in a tree at the north edge of the powerline cut and are just sitting there, ‘seep’-ing softly, observing. The Carolina Wren, meanwhile, morphs into a Northern Mockingbird going through its repertoire. This one seems to live right at the base of the powerline, a few hundred yards away at most.
By 7:20 I’ve already logged 15 species, as many or more than I can record in an entire hour back in town. The crows turn more dramatic and urgent, and then, perhaps because I’m hard to miss in my mustard-colored parka, in a spot people rarely occupy, they come in close then perch a few trees below the robins. After about five raucous minutes, crows, then robins, are off.
Northern Cardinals are doing more than ticking today; one does the downward ‘chew’ that sounds more like a song than a call.
At 7:28, at dawn itself, the commuter starlings are going over in steady groups, and the Wild Turkey gobbles again, not for the last time. A lone Canada Goose meanders confusedly over the ridgetop, and two minutes later, the sun emerges from below Tussey Mountain, south of the water gap of the Little Juniata where Tussey becomes Short Mountain.
Things wind down quickly after this. At 7:37, a silent Pileated Woodpecker swoops in when it hears my ‘pish’-ing but is soon off. Not long after, the background noise is crows, an occasional gobble, the ‘fee-bee’ calls of distant chickadees, and the cackle of the Pileated. Oh yeah, and those infernal guineas. 19 species.
A Merlin poses on a power pole just over the top of the ridge, such an extraordinary sighting for the hotspot and the Big Year that it gets its own post.
Eastern Towhees
I missed the towhees last weekend, but as you probably remember, I’m trying to figure out how long they are going to stay around this winter. I play a single ‘reep’ call at the edge of First Field, and out they come.
I feel a bit guilty getting these two so excited, but they never vocalize or show themselves for any other reason this time of year. The barberry forest is elsewise pretty devoid of birds except for a curious Song Sparrow. I suppose the White-throated Sparrow mob is still around somewhere, but today isn’t the day I’m going to look for it. Instead, I head down to the house to check out Mom’s feeders.
Feeders
On Friday, Mom emailed me this:
“All the gang was here the last couple days—14 species for FeederWatch—and then this morning, at 8AM, I heard a blue jay call and sure enough it came in to the feeder area. Otherwise, my count for Jan. 25-26 was 40 juncos, 3 white throats, 1 tree sparrow, 14 mourning doves, 1 red-bellied, 3 chickadees, 1 downy, 1 white-breasted nuthatch, 3 titmice, 8 house finches, 6 goldfinches, 1 song sparrow, 2 cardinals, 1 Carolina wren. All feeders were mobbed most of the day and so was the porch and ground below.”
Her feeder counts are similar in species numbers to my balcony count 1.5 miles away, and we may even share a Mourning Dove or two. I’m nearly certain that the passerines come from up to a quarter-mile away, from roosts in the spruce grove, the powerline, and various barberry patches (others roost quite close to the house). The House Finches may be from as far away as Tyrone, or perhaps they sleep near the house. From my balcony, I haven’t recorded any American Goldfinches in weeks, and intriguingly, despite picking up many calls of woods birds on quiet days, I have never recorded a Red-bellied Woodpecker.
Today I just wanted to snag some easy photos for your viewing enjoyment:
Ravens Again
As I pass by Dave’s house on the way back down the Hollow, he’s out doing his own morning sit. I tell him about the sunrise and he wonders if today is going to be the one nice day. In Plummer’s Hollow tradition, that means a day that start out nice (= sunny), goes nice all day, and ends up nice. It’s good to get out and enjoy such a rare phenomenon, as tomorrow is sure to be gray to make up for the lack of discretion.
*Spoiler Alert: Tomorrow reaches absolute gray*
Above the forks, I’m thinking that if the Winter Wren I’ve heard about is still here, I should probably have my camera ready, because I don’t have any photo of this species and when the foliage comes, it’s only going to get tougher. On cue, out it pops, posing perfectly, bounce-running along logs, calling. Eventually, I get my camera out, but as La Ley de Murphy dictates, the wren is already gone.
Farther down the hollow, I give a quick snow burial to a decapitated shrew—owl drop, perhaps—and notice some insect or another defying the season. The woods is dead silent until a raven couple dives toward me through the canopy, emitting honking calls and some croaks for good measure. They appear to check me out and then they’re off, back up the ridge. I’m wondering if they are aware I’m the same interloper from earlier. You never can tell with ravens.
Thermals
After 3, we’re back from shopping and the temperature is 50 in the shade. Heat and sun mean rising air, signifying potential raptor sightings. Time for a late afternoon balcony sit.
A good haul: 14 species.
At one point, two Black Vultures and a Turkey Vulture do a micro-kettle, a rare sight indeed in January!
A pair of White-breasted Nuthatches hang out in plain sight, vocalizing as they work the trees along the interstate.
A flock of Common Grackles from out of the Gap passes through town heading west. I have to wonder if this species will ever leave the area entirely this winter. I just wish they would perch where they spend the entire summer, in the nearby sycamores.
A fast-moving raptor with tucked wings off below the towers temporarily seems to be a Peregrine Falcon, but as it rises into a thermal, it becomes a Cooper’s Hawk. One has to be careful about such things; I’ve had falcons on the brain since this morning’s sighting.
Speaking of that, the Merlin is species #56 for the Plummer’s Hollow 200. It ends an 11-day drought for additions to the list for this Big Year.