Week 13 (Mar 25-31 2024)
Highlights
First good Long-tailed Duck flight (Mon evening)
Return of the Brown Thrasher (Wed)
Osprey migration begins (Sat/Sun) - earliest ever for the hotspot
Tree Swallows in small flocks (Sun)
FOY Double-crested Cormorants (Sun)
Possibly the first migrant Broad-winged Hawk in the state for 2024 (Sun)
For 2024, 91 species so far, pending NFCs; 1 above 2023 at this time
Courting Belted Kingfishers, woodpeckers, many others
Small flock of Common Loons and another of Great Blue Herons (Sun)
All-time hotspot and Blair County high numbers for Northern Cardinal (42) and Downy Woodpecker (19) (Sat)
Log
Mar 25 (Mon). AM: 27 spp. (balcony, 1 hr. 15 min.)
Mar 26 (Tues). AM: 26 spp. (balcony, 1 hr. 15 min.). PM: 25 spp. (2-mi. hike, 1 hr. 15 min.)
Mar 27 (Wed). AM: 27 spp. (balcony, 1 hr. 30 min). PM: 10 spp. (balcony, 20 min)
Mar 28 (Thurs). AM: 32 spp. (1-mi. hike, 2 hrs.)
Mar 29 (Fri). AM: 33 spp. (2-mi. hike, 1 hr. 45 min.)
Mar 30 (Sat). AM: 49 spp. (5-mi. hike, 4 hr. 30 min.)
Mar 31 (Sun). AM: 47 spp. (2-mi. hike, 3 hrs. 50 min.). PM: 21 spp. (balcony, 1 hr.)
While the last week of March brought few new passerines to the hotspot (and no warblers), it did see a crescendo of courting and, presumably, mating activity for many year-long residents and particularly cardinals and woodpeckers. Weather conditions were just right for a lamb-like final Sunday, with new and unusual species in the sky throughout the day, culminating in an unexpected raptor.
While writing last week’s summary around 5:20 AM on Monday, I hear what sound like Snow Geese, but way too late in the year, and rush to the balcony. The odd noise is obliterated by a passing train, leaving the species off the list for another spring. Maybe in the fall!
Later, it’s absolutely clear and 28 to start, and at a quarter to seven the American Robins are already fighting over parking lot territories under my feet. They jump and flutter, yammering loudly.
The temperature drops, and I have to don a heavy coat by seven. Two Common Mergansers go by, heading south, and a Downy Woodpecker over by the junkyard sounds initially like an unanswered telephone; so much like one, indeed, that I have to listen for over a minute to make sure.
Near eight, 20 species in, a Fish Crow comes by the library on leisurely morning rounds. The first Turkey Vulture appears off the roost, flapping slowly out toward Sapsucker Ridge, and a second follows, plumage gleaming in the sun.
Several flocks of Long-tailed Duck go over between 9 PM and midnight, perhaps after spending time at Raystown Lake to the south. The online Peterson field guide to bird calls characterizes their amazing vocalizations as barks, crackles, and, unusual for a species of waterfowl, songs: “How, how, how are you?”
Wing whistles and rhythmic wingbeats, grunts, quacks, wails, whistles, and other sounds indicate flights of Wood Ducks, Mallards, and species yet to be identified.
Zone of Invisibility
On Tuesday, it’s cloudy, pinkish, and in the 40s. Again today, the Winter Wren is singly loudly before seven, but otherwise, few species are about. Strangely enough, Turkey Vultures come off the roost much earlier today, with 19 already overhead by 10 after.
Robins are going over high, in flocks, this morning, all eastward. As I scan the dots in transit, above the level of the Turkey Vulture commute, I spot two Great Blue Herons even higher up, flying north. They’re at the edge of visibility under binocular magnification, and completely invisible to the naked eye. Note to self: save up for higher-power, higher-quality binoculars to penetrate deeper into the zone of invisibility, to see what flies above the herons on days like this.
To cap it off, a European Starling perches on a nearby wire and does an absolutely frightful, cartoonish rendition of an Eastern Phoebe.
In the evening, it feels like spring again. Along the tracks, the temperature is nearing 60 and there’s a noticeable smell of manure off fields to the east. Clouds of bugs gambol over the Little Juniata. Nothing but the regular crowd about, with what I would guess will be the last two Rusty Blackbirds I’ll see this year.
Kingfisher Flight
With dawn temperatures in the 40s again on Wednesday, the hush of the last few days gives over to a steady chorus of Song Sparrows, Northern Cardinals, and robins by 6:30, with the Eastern Phoebe starting six minutes after that. At 6:49, I hear the rattle of a Belted Kingfisher from downriver, and after a 10-minute pause, another, longer rattle. This species has been quite scarce so far in 2024, but migration should be in full swing soon.
After a lull, bird noise picks up again after seven, but by 7:30 the weather seems to be turning toward rain. Small flocks of robins and Common Grackles flush from the west, as if escaping the approaching weather. The sky grows darker and darker, the birds quieter and quieter. At 7:49, 15 Turkey Vultures fly under a black swirl toward a brighter part of the sky.
Not long before 8 I scan what seems like a Rock Pigeon - right size, right direction, right location - and realize it’s a Belted Kingfisher that’s rocketed up from Bald Eagle Creek and is making its way out through the Gap.
A Hawk at Dawn
Dave reported the year’s first Brown Thrasher yesterday, so at 6 AM on Thursday I’m up in the field under a full-enough moon. Dark-eyed Juncos and White-throated Sparrows flush from the brambles as I pass, and an early Northern Cardinal sings off somewhere at 6:03 AM, much earlier than in town. Passing the outline of a dense shrub, I startle an Eastern Towhee that gives one loud reep!
The chorus starts in earnest at 6:18, as one and then another Song Sparrow sings, each with a slightly different song, followed seconds later by Field Sparrows, each also distinct. At 6:22 AM, sure enough, I hear the distant 2x imitations of a Brown Thrasher.
A ghostly Red-tailed Hawk soars lower over the neck of the field at 6:38, barely clearing the trees, heading east. One wonders how often hawks come out in the dark, and for what purposes; this one is definitely stretching the meaning of “diurnal.”
A little bit later, a Hermit Thrush makes the whine call, a sound I haven’t heard in months. By 7, I’ve logged 21 species, five more than would be expected from the balcony by this point. Already, the chorus of white-throats, songs, and Fox Sparrows has nearly died out, but the towhees and fields go on…and on…and on…
Departure of the Wrens of Winter
On Friday, I’m at the moonlit pond well before 6:30 AM. The drive from town goes from robin chorus to silence, then robin chorus again as I approach the floodlights of the sewage treatment plant across the highway. Loud squeals alert me to the presence of Wood Ducks in the pond; I’ve been picking them up a lot on the NFC recorder recently, and Mom and Dave have seen them up in the vernal ponds as well.
At 6:50, a pair of Mallards descends elegantly and carefully to the sloughs between the tracks and the highway, in the depths of Redstart Swamp.
At 7:28 AM it’s 33 degrees and clear, and most of the local species have sounded off, save one. Winter Wrens are noticeably absent after an active and vocal winter. I suppose they may have headed north to breeding grounds, but perhaps one or two went no farther than the Hollow.
Woodpecker Mania
On Saturday I trek around the southern and central parts of the hotspot, sprayed down for ticks, still looking for new arrivals for the week and month. Everywhere I turn, there’s a cardinal singing or calling, and the juncos twitter and tick in clouds (236 in total). It’s peak Golden-crowned Kinglet as well, with dozens about (43 in all), though not a single Ruby-crowned has shown up yet.
Hermit Thrushes pose quietly here and there in the undergrowth, not at all shy. In a certain thicket, hesitant thrush-y whines finally give way to song : as always, hermits sing their ethereal notes here in migration, but never seem to breed.
Both Downy and Hairy woodpeckers are courting: boisterous affairs, high in the trees, sometimes zipping back and forth past each other across the same areas. Downies emit a kweek series, while Hairies do a much louder wik-a, the smaller species mirroring the larger, as it does in calls and plumage. The other common woodpeckers are also vocal and active, and at a favored spot on Bird Count Trail I finally spot a closely associating pair of Yellow-bellied Sapsuckers, though like the Hermit Thrushes, they won’t stick around to nest.
From a thicket beyond Far Field, next to a seep under spicebush, witch hazel, and barberry, I flush two Ruffed Grouse—the second pair and third sighting of the year, a slight increase from 2023.
A Sharp-shinned Hawk courses overhead when I’m on Greenbriar, and a few minutes later, at 10:20, the FOY drought is broken with an Osprey soaring steadily north above Sapsucker Ridge. This is the first we’ve ever recorded the species in March.
Back on the balcony, I watch a Fish Crow attack a Turkey Vulture over by Bald Eagle Mountain, but for what, I can’t tell.
Like a Lamb on Easter
Dark skies mixed with brilliant horizontal sun not long after daybreak. It’s in the forties after heavy rain much of the night, and the highway on Easter Sunday is as quiet as it gets. Not long after seven I hit the tracks, and right off, a quartet of Great Blue Herons drifts slowly over, much lower than the pair I saw the other day. Never hesitating, and flapping barely fast enough to stay in the air, it seems, they reach Tyrone and veer south, out of sight. A very good sign of things to come at the end of the years’ first quarter.
Minutes later, something between a Common Merganser and a cormorant appears over the Gap, flying this way and that, below the ridgelines. It’s a Common Loon, second of the year but a much better and longer view than I had earlier in the month. As it heads west, four more loons follow, close together—the best views I’ve ever had of the species while they’re airborne. As this is a diurnal migrant, I have to wonder onto what local water body they were forced to land overnight, or whether they have already made it here from Canoe Creek, Raystown Lake, or somewhere farther away.
The action continues with a kingfisher pursuit. One follows fast on the other, rattling loudly and ignoring me as the first and then the second plunges head first to the pond, yards from my face. They alight on snags there for a few minutes and then zoom over to the river, where they zip up and down the rest of the time I’m in the area.
Next are Tree Swallows: four high up over the valley.
American Goldfinches, Brown-headed Cowbirds, and Eastern Phoebes are all reaching a crescendo of activity this morning. Migrant goldfinches are swirling from tree to tree in small flocks, doing a range of calls and songs—this is one of their annual peaks, and at times they’re so energetic that I catch their flight calls on the NFC recorder in the middle of the night. Male cowbirds, meanwhile, are perched here and there in the treetops, singing and bowing, and then chasing about the sky with small groups of admirers and rivals.
As I’m reveling in the quiet, an unusually long westbound garbage train roars by, suffocating the air with the reek of cities, hundreds of bins oozing refuse. Minutes after it’s gone, the stench still blankets the Gap. And more trains go by, somewhat unusual for a Sunday that’s a major holiday, but perhaps it has to do with the supply chain disruption in the Port of Baltimore.
Back at the crossing, at 8:22 AM, I watch the year’s second Osprey on the move, never wavering as it follows the flight path across from Brush to Bald Eagle mountain, out of sight.
I decide to spend some time on the balcony to see what else comes up the flight path this morning. Three and then six Tree Swallows show up over the river, circling, diving, and calling. At 10:19, Osprey #3 goes by.
At 10:27, what at first look like more loons appear confusedly over the top of Bald Eagle Mountain. This time, though, they’re Double-crested Cormorants, #90 for the year. Fanning their tails in flight, they wheel this way and that and ultimately decide to turn south, following the river for a bit and then going back east over Brush Mountain. Moments later, a Sharp-shinned Hawk flies east.
Today’s a work day, with the torment of a Tufted Titmouse not long after noon. Its monotonous three-note call sounds from outside the office window, seemingly for hours but perhaps only for 20 minutes or so.
After five, I give it one more shot to see if I can top last year’s total. I had hoped to stretch it to 100 species, but the cold and windy weather has held back too many migrants to reach that milestone this year.
One March nemesis, the Eastern Meadowlark, must already be back in Sinking Valley, but none has fluttered over the balcony yet, and on Saturday I couldn’t hear any from the far side of the hotspot, either. Starlings mock me with ceaseless meadowlark rendition, nevertheless. Commuters from valleys to the east, they no doubt already have it on their year lists.
The ceiling has gotten quite high and the weather has cleared out, with temperatures in the upper fifties. I scan every dot plastered against the wispy white and blue, but most are robins, grackles, and vultures. And then, at 6:26, an amazing sight: far above the vultures, a lone Broad-winged Hawk is on the move along the flight corridor, hundreds of feet above the level of the ospreys. Like the Ospreys, it never hesitates—no local, this—and I watch it disappear northeastward into the evening.