Days blur together now in a deluge of work, with warblers in the interstices. The weather ranges from clammy to muggy, and only occasionally clear, but north winds are on their way. The antenna is a katydid extravaganza before 2 AM, a warbler-fest after that, and a swelling chorus of Veeries just before 6 AM.
**Spoiler Alert** Every snag scanned, every pewee and phoebe glassed, but no Olive-sided Flycatcher yet, and the clock is ticking. Most every warbler but Golden-winged. Still, there’s plenty to get excited about.
Saturday
An overcast 68 at 5:36 AM, perfect for crickets and even a few lingering katydids. Before six, Whip-poor-will, then Veery descending, then three clucks from a Wood Thrush. Then eight minutes of silence. A breeze moves the goldenrod, which is already beginning to bloom.
A Rose-breasted Grosbeak, flying over, calls once. Not long after six, five or more Wood Thrushes converse, each clucking at a different register and from a different location. I wonder if they are announcing their presence to each other, and whether these are new arrivals or if they have been hanging out here for a while?
At about a quarter past, the thrushes die down and the Eastern Towhees take over, reep-ing from all ends of the field. An Eastern Screech-Owl trills softly, while other birds wake up and begin to move about. As usual, a Gray Catbird flies in to the nearest black locust and commences to scold me. Then, a Wood Thrush flies in too, quite disturbed and curious, clucking loudly.
A Hooded Warbler sings from the depths of the tangles while dark, warbler-y shapes flit and chase each other through the treetops and back and forth across the field. Cape May Warbler flight calls are identifiable by ear, but I’ll wait to ID others over the warbler hour. An Ovenbird, probably pacing up and down a nearby limb, calls over and over again. And then, another old friend chips: Black-throated Blue Warbler, first of the fall.
I get up from my chair and Merlin hears my boots squeak a Great Egret. I’ve confused my A.I., poor thing; focused on my footwear, it completely misses the croak of a Great Blue Heron overhead.
The next group to wake up includes two Red-bellied Woodpeckers; all the other common woodpeckers soon follow, a typical pattern. The Wood Thrushes and towhees are now mostly quiet. Oddly enough, the wood-pewee hasn’t made a sound yet.
By 6:36, things have quieted down considerably, and it looks like rain. A House Wren can’t stand the lull, though, and begins to complain loudly up-field. Then it’s time for White-breasted Nuthatches to vocalize, and finally, 40 minutes late, the first Eastern Wood-Pewee cries. I needn’t have worried: they still seem to be up on every snag.
At twenty minutes until seven, the most active birds are American Goldfinches, bouncing and singing across the sky. A few minutes later, Cedar Waxwings join in, and then a few Barn Swallows show up, doubtless among the last of the season, as I’ve never recorded one here in September. There’s a certain wistful feeling, something about the impossibility of stopping time, when the swallows leave.
Even later today, thanks to the gloomy light, is the Red-eyed Vireo, but it doesn’t take long to make up for the absence. A Swainson’s Thrush sounds off from the forest, calling, not singing, unfortunately.
A Common Yellowthroat calls and then sings its witchety-witchety down in nearby goldenrod, then tosses itself into the air, appearing to somersault, some sort of sally after a bug, I would guess. A Worm-eating Warbler sings its dry trill; like the Hooded, it’s not bothered by the fact that the breeding season is long over.
Return of the Barbarian European Horde
Just before seven, still too dark to make out warblers, I added the vocalizations of a late Yellow Warbler and the first Yellow-rumped Warbler of the fall, while I’m scanning the narrow orange band that passes for sunrise, up to the northeast. And then I see them, strung out by the hundreds, coming from Sinking Valley or beyond and heading toward Tyrone. They’re back. European Starlings. For whatever reason, they don’t seem interested in our black cherries, but that’s fine with me, as I’d rather see them attract Cedar Waxwing by the hundreds and feed the thrushes as they make their way toward South America.
At seven, a Carolina Wren teakettles deafeningly, close at hand. I begin to move, trying to find the right spots to intersect the convergence of warblers and other passerines. This process takes a while, as birds roost in separate locations, call and sing at specific points, then appear to group up, I would guess to provide safety in numbers with all the predators about.
Warbler Fever
I am temporarily misled by a Nashville Warbler up in a black locust, thinking it’s a Mourning Warbler, as this skulker does move up into higher branches on occasion. Then, as warbler hour commences, it’s time to separate the look-alikes: a Pine Warbler, a couple Blackburnians, the first Bay-breasted, an early Blackpoll. At least Chestnut-sided Warblers and Magnolia Warblers are easy to ID, plus they’re both curious and almost tame.
During warbler hour, time is of the essence, as I’ve noticed that after 8:30, they tend to move higher into the trees and feed more quietly. But now, between 7:30 and 8:30, they are often frenetic, chasing each other or fighting with the ubiquitous Red-eyed Vireos, rarely waiting around more than a split second, except for the easy-to-ID Black-and-white and Hooded warblers. Otherwise, I have to let plenty of blurs go without firm IDs.
At a quarter to eight, I’m staring past goldenrod into a privet bush drowned by mile-a-minute, which at this point appears poised to consume all of Plummer’s Hollow. A slow-moving, deliberate Mourning Warbler surfaces among the leaves for a few moments, allowing me to take yet another poor-quality warbler photo. As always, it’s within a few yards of the other preferred First Field spots for this spring and fall transient, and I have to wonder whether I’m seeing the same individuals, or their progeny, every season.
Ten minutes later, I watch a female or immature Blue-winged Warbler up in the black locusts, in the same spot I saw the male the other day.
By eight, warbler hour is nearly over, and the list stands at 22 species. A notable miss is the Cerulean, a species that has probably already moved through, even though it was common just a few days ago.
Empids and Other Rarities
With more time on my hands today, I head to the spruce grove and am greeted by another warbler swarm. I don’t mean to downgrade the value of other species, of course; picture scads of Black-capped Chickadees, Scarlet Tanagers, White-breasted Nuthatches, Gray Catbirds, Rose-breasted Grosbeaks, and many others. Indeed, mostly before nine AM, I log 78 species, so I would think over 100 species are easily about, the highest numbers of the year, along with mid-May.
Unlike May, not all species are singing, or even calling. The Empidonax flycatchers are hit and miss, and I require some sort of vocalization to confidently ID them, since their plumages seem to blend together at this time of year. I already detected a Least Flycatcher today, probably one of the last, giving its dry ‘chebec.’ Now, during a brief sit facing the locusts below the spruce grove, I hear and then see a small Empid making a richer sound, somewhat different than the Least, more like a ‘chelec.’ Also, it’s yellowish underneath, and greenish above. I feel confident enough to call this the first fall Yellow-bellied Flycatcher we’ve recorded in Plummer’s Hollow. You may remember I also ID’ed this species in the spring; it has been overlooked here in the past, but with the aid of much better identification tools now, we should be able to garner a better idea of its status.
After the Yellow-bellied disappears into a spruce, I hear a Golden-crowned Kinglet, quite a surprisingly. Perhaps our summer residents didn’t leave, after all. Meanwhile, though I once again heard a Ruby-crowned Kinglet, I didn’t see it. I think these first individuals of the season stay high up in the canopy, because I had the same experience last year at this time.
Far Field Headache
At first, all is quiet here, as it’s already after 9:30. I play two bars of vireo, however, and the woods explode with birds. There is a nice conjunction of black cherries, birches, grape vines, snags, and an entire dead ash tree that fills with Cedar Waxwings, flycatchers, woodpeckers, grosbeaks, and tanagers, mostly a tropical assortment. Ah yes, and Blue-gray Gnatcatchers, and Ruby-throated Hummingbirds, and Yellow-throated Vireos, and a perpetually-angry sounding Blue-headed Vireo. My head is beginning to ache from a combination of hunger, caffeine deprivation, and the stress of attempting to count so much bird stuff. In the old days, it was simpler; now, we’re all servants of eBird.
10:30 Snapshot
I’m doing a final First Field walk-through now. If you were just now getting up, you might think our birds are all on the verge of extinction, as there is barely a peep from the sky, woods, or field. The air is still, and only waxwings and goldfinches are on the move. Field and Chipping sparrows are now the main attraction in the goldenrod, as the last cries of pewees and the final Red-eyed Vireo drones can be heard in the woods. A Common Yellowthroat call, A Song Sparrow clank. But all those wonderful, beautiful warblers from three hours ago have disappeared, feeding quietly in the foliage, no doubt.
On the rocks below the bridge, a Green Heron poses, the last species for the morning.
After Eight
8 PM is the new nine: just a handful of species remain. This Saturday evening the sky is clear, so the light will last. Chimney Swifts swarm over the confluence, as usually, dropping out by ones, two, and threes until only a few dark blurs are left, late arrivals from the valleys. At 8:09, a flock of around 50 Cedar Waxwings buzzes through, then a single Gray Catbird vocalizes once, softly.
The last House Finch returns to roost at 8:12. Two American Robins, which have been perching quietly across from me on the wires, finally leave, whispering quietly to each other. A warbler or something else is still chipping from the confluence somewhere.
The moonrise isn’t werewolf-ready yet, but it’s getting there.
The Five Hundred
Much as I would like to have another go at the warblers on Sunday morning, I have to stay disciplined, as I have a 12-hour writing project to complete today. A dawn balcony sit will have to suffice, frustrating as that is.
Fortunately, it’s in the high fifties and clear, so the commuters should be obvious today. Over Bald Eagle Mountain, a crescent Venus makes it quite high past the wires until the sun blinds it.
I put Merlin out for fun. In town, it has trouble picking up anything, but today, with no trains and little traffic, it surprises me, detecting up around half of the 21 total species I log. First off, it nails a Hooded Warbler that calls for several minutes along Bald Eagle Creek, out of sight.
At 6:26, a Green Heron I had heard earlier from off toward the Burger King drops in a tight spiral into the confluence and out of sight. Soon thereafter, a lone Cedar Waxwing flies over to the dead ash tree, perching and sallying, voicelessly.
Small groups of House Finches begin to leave town, and their overall number today is 59, well under where they were at this time last year. Rock Pigeons, however, are out in force. They commute solo or in flocks up to 40, in the typical pattern. They converge around the tallest buildings downtown, to my left, then stream out above the interstate, often making several rounds before heading eastward over Bald Eagle Mountain to their still to-me mysterious breakfast spot. The largest groups often have lone sentinels that I suspect may help them detect threats such as falcons. At the end of their commute, around 7:30, just before the sun hits, I’ve counted 306, close to the record number I counted last year at almost exactly the same time. Plus, I know this isn’t all of them, since I’ve also been seeing some over the field, commuting from Tyrone toward Sinking Valley.
At 6:42, just after the first Bald Eagle heads downriver, the European horde arrives in town. This is doubtless 2/3 of the same flock I saw yesterday, and it is already breaking apart into smaller groups. Despite the abundant bugs in the sky, the starlings stay down in the vegetation, out of sight. Perhaps they are feeding on our newest insects, spotted lanternflies, which have hatched in large numbers over the last week. They also have abundant fruits and caterpillars to go after as well, of course. The strangest thing is that despite their loud and close vocalizations, Merlin is unable to ID them.
Clouds Appear and Disappear
It’s late Monday afternoon before I have time for another peek outside. By a bit after five it’s cloud, windy, and in the 70s. At first, it’s desolate, without a bird to be seen or heard.
Everything is high up, and even beyond the naked eye. Goldfinches and House Finches twitter over, here and there, nearly invisible. High over Sapsucker Ridge, I watch a distant Chimney Swift cloud swirling, but when I look back a few minutes later, it’s gone. The towers are covered with Turkey Vultures, then they’re not. A vulture flock, including a few Black Vultures, appears over Bald Eagle Mountain, then is gone.
Near at hand, one or more Ruby-throated Hummingbirds rips past, stopping briefly at the feeder. I fight off the yellowjackets, angry old dying miserable things.
An Eastern Phoebe arrives, perching on various snags and branches along Bald Eagle Creek, and chipping repeatedly before hurling itself skyward to grab bugs.