Perch and Sally
Late Saturday afternoon, a local craft alcohol festival is in full swing under threatening skies. Some folk-rock-country band isn’t playing my type of music, but there’s not much else to hear from the balcony anyway. My main entertainment is watching a juvenile Cedar Waxwing sit on the dead ash snag, waiting for an adult to catch something for it. Waxwings, though addicted to fruit, also go for aerial prey like flycatchers do.
While the waxwing is sallying 30 yards out or more, an Eastern Phoebe is down below in a half-dead tree along Bald Eagle Creek, flicking its tail, sallying out a few feet, then perching. It never once makes a sound.
At one point, a Ruby-throated Hummingbird starts to seesaw over the parking lot, back and forth several time in wide, deep, U movements, then departs.
Pup
It stormed at some point in the night. Misty rain and 67, but the vegetation is so wet that whatever is coming from above is the least of my concerns. At the sit spot in the neck, it’s time to adopt a stoic tropical stance: ignore all the unpleasantries. At 5:35 AM, the mosquitoes are so bad-a#$ that they complete ignore my Deet bath. Whatever.
A Whip-Poor-Will repeats itself in the distance, behind the calls of the first Northern Cardinals, Eastern Towhees, and Wood Thrushes. The dawn chorus is still on, and every time I come out here, there are more Rose-breasted Grosbeaks—not singing, but making a certain type of twangy call.
Around 6 AM, I move 100 yards north along the trail to the powerline cut. The goldenrod is so tall now that I can barely see over the tops of it when I’m in my camp chair. As the rest of the early birds sound off, a Warbling Vireo calls, and Merlin, which has only missed the Whip-Poor-Will, gets it as well. I move again, back south a bit, to try to find the sweet spot where I can hear the optimal number of species from different directions. The rain has eased, but fog and possibly a heavier storm is coming in over the top of Sapsucker Ridge.
At 6:21, a rustling in the goldenrod above the trail announces the appearance of a half-grown Gray Fox some 15 feet from me. It sniffs around, sees me, and darts back to cover. I don’t have my camera out because of the weather, and I figure I won’t be seeing this individual again.
Among the various warblers that are beginning to move, the Hooded stands out because it seems to never stop singing, as if this were the height of the breeding season. It reminds of the Carolina Wren, another that didn’t get the memo. I guess that’s a little unfair: except for the Scarlet Tanager and a few others, most species are still singing in one form or another, though all the vireos start up much later. Watching a juvenile towhee sing at one point, I have to wonder how much of what I hear now is coming from young birds.
At 6:25, the Gray Fox pup emerges a second time, affording me a spectacular view. This time, it sees me more clearly, and in great haste, runs into the goldenrod on the east side of the trail.
Flycatcher Mania
At half past six, through patches of fog and mist, small bats are flying about with Barn Swallows. Merlin, in its only major slip up of the morning, logs a Great Egret somehow. I think this came from an odd sound my sodden gear was making.
A Least Flycatcher calls and then ‘chebecs.’ I’m glad to see this migrant is still around, and it’s quite nice to hear the song during Fall migration.
Over the course of the next hours, I see four more Least Flycatchers, perching and sallying, mostly low in the black locusts. Five is a hotspot record number, so I would guess we are at the height of the migration, though it seems rather late. Perhaps they are attracted by the bugs and fruit. Only the first one sang, but all the others call.
The confusion comes with the inordinately high number of Eastern Wood-Pewees, which have mannerisms similar to a larger pewee, the Olive-sided Flycatcher, tha tI’m on the lookout for. Pewees don’t sing through the night now, but they do sing throughout the day, and call, and fight, and perch, and sally. Every distant, silent pewee has to be glassed to separate it from the Acadian Flycatchers, which have also gravitated to the fruit and bugs. Acadians are calling very little and singing almost never, except back down in the deep hollow where they bred. At least one “Trail’s” Alder/Willow Flycatcher is about as well, but, frustratingly, it never vocalizes. Eastern Phoebes are here in small numbers, not singing, barely calling, but doing their characteristic tail flicks. Great Crested Flycatchers are conspicuously absent, but I believe they will reappear in a week or two.
Temporary Absences
At last, the Golden-crowned Kinglets are gone from the spruce grove. There is a conspicuous one-month gap for this species in the hotspot until it reappears in September. Brown Thrashers are absent as well, but they’ll be back soon. Eastern Bluebirds have also made themselves scarce. A bigger surprise is Northern Orioles; I expect to see them back on the cherries any day now, however. And what happened to all the swallows? Did they all depart except the Barns? In another week, we’ll know, if the normal mixed-species swallow flocks don’t show up on the electric lines this year.
Mixed Flocks
As the mist finally clears out, the birds begin to gather in loose associations spaced a few hundred yards apart. They’re a bit late this morning, as I suspect they had to spend some time preening: I saw quite a few sodden specimens earlier.
This pattern of mixed feeding flocks tends to hold through the end of the passerine migration in November, and also occurs in the spring, particularly with sparrows. Depending on light and heat conditions, I typically try to sit at what I think will be the most fruitful (pun intended) spot until around seven, moving back and forth a hundred yards at most. Then I pack up my things but carry the chair, and work my way from the spruce grove north as far as Dogwood Knoll, a distance of about a mile. Whenever I see movement, I immediately sit down to decrease my threat profile.
Today, the spruce grove is active, but not bursting with birds. By 8 AM, the real action is along the field neck to the south of the powerline, and two species that had not been visible previously—Scarlet Tanager and Magnolia Warbler—are prominent. After that, little else than a Canada Warbler that’s been hanging around for a while is present until I get to Connecticut Corner, where it’s a repeat of the first group, but with many more tanagers. In both groups, birds are exploiting various niches, with House and Carolina wrens, sparrows (including towhees), and Common Yellowthroats dominant in the goldenrod, and other species, from Black-and-white Warblers to Rose-breasted Grosbeaks, cardinals, and Gray Catbirds in the middle and upper levels. Red-eyed Vireos are still the most prominent species, and along with waxwings and a few American Robins, are spending most of their time on the black cherries. They’re still in family groups, and adults are often feeding juveniles. I haven’t yet seen a REVI with a cherry in its beak, however, so it could be they’re just after the arthropods.
The next big group should be along Bird Count Trail, and another along Greenbriar Trail. Time to slog.
In the mid-morning woods it’s quiet but for pewees, Red-eyed Vireos, and flyover American Goldfinches. In a thick patch of multiflora rose, mile-a-minute, wild grapes, and overgrown cherries, nothing is stirring, until I play a bit of screech-owl. Almost instantly, the vegetation comes alive with Ruby-throated Hummingbirds, Hooded Warblers, and vireos. A pair of Red-tailed Hawks soars in the blue. As elsewhere today, there are no noticeable new arrivals, so I move on.
The next flock, along Greenbriar, is in an area of towering tulip-trees and wild grapes, but it’s still too early for fall warbler flocks beyond what’s already here. By 10:30, activity has died down almost completely, and it’s time to head back to town.
Later, Dave mentions that he is hearing a Warbling Vireo warbling in the same area I saw one of two this morning. This is the first record we have of this species singing during molt-migration.
American Yard Leader
Every once in awhile, I remember to check on an odd eBird ranking, the “Yard leaders.” Back during the pandemic, it was suggested to me that the whole hotspot was my “yard,” which is, to say the least, stretching it a little. I mean, I did pretty much bird it intensively every day on foot, but the total area is quite expansive. Still, there isn’t much of a definition of “yard” out there—certainly not the grass around one’s house, anyway.
And there you have it. For the first and presumably last time, I have surged to number one in the United States for something. Mind you, my year and overall lists are nowhere near those of the truly obsessed; I think I’ve just hit a slow period for most birders. I suspect this hefty lead will disappear within days, or even hours. Nothing like a brief moment of fame, or infamy, though.