Week 16 (Apr. 15-21, 2024)
Highlights
New for Plummer’s Hollow (#225): Black-crowned Night Heron (NFC on Fri)
First-of-year (FOY) on NFCs: Green Heron (4/11) + Grasshopper Sparrow (Wed) and Greater Yellowlegs (Thurs)
Balcony FOYs: Chimney Swift (Mon), Northern Rough-winged Swallow and Cliff Swallow (Tues), and Purple Martin (Wed)
Mountaintop FOYs: Black-throated Green Warbler (Wed), Black-and-white Warbler, Black-throated Blue Warbler, Wood Thrush, and Baltimore Oriole (Thurs) - all earliest-ever records for Plummer’s Hollow
Whip-poor-will recorded April 11 - Plummer’s Hollow captures earliest 2024 record of this species in Pennsylvania for second year in a row
Major raptor flight (Wed) including year’s highest Broad-winged Hawk numbers
123 species for 2024 - around #5 or #6 in PA hotspots
Log
Apr 15 (Mon). AM: 27 spp. (balcony, 1 hr. 30 min.)
Apr 16 (Tues). AM: 32 spp. (balcony, 1 hr. 20 min.); AM/PM: 29 spp. (balcony, 2hrs. 20 min.)
Apr 17 (Wed). AM: 30 spp. (balcony, 1 hr.); PM: 39 spp. (balcony, 4 hrs. 20 min.)
Apr 18 (Thurs). AM: 62 spp. (4-mi. hike/drive, 3 hrs. 30 min.); PM: 23 spp. (balcony, 35 min.)
Apr 19 (Fri). AM: 36 spp. (1.25-mi. hike, 1 hr. 15 min.)
Apr 20 (Sat). AM: 29 spp. (balcony, 1 hr.)
Apr 21 (Sun). AM: 36 spp. (5-mi. hike, 3 hr.)
A warm spell and unsettled weather bring an epic mid-week fallout of early tropical migrants. Balcony days welcome swifts and swallows back, but by Friday, chilly weather halts the northward flow for the time being.
Monday: Struggling with Fog
Clearing and cool, and after more rain, the river is rising again. Not long after 6, a ghostly, pale shape drifts over, and it takes a few seconds to decipher an American Crow rather than something more exotic. As the day lightens, the fog rolls in from north and south. A month after its first appearance on the nocturnal spectrum, a Chipping Sparrow rattle-trills from an avenue tree in among all the other clamor. A lone Barn Swallow, just back yesterday, chitters from a parking lot wire, periodically taking off and flying about, and then alighting in the same spot, its back to me.
As is common on such foggy days, the chink-er-lees and easies of a Red-winged Blackbird, away from home, sound from a confluence treetop. By seven, the Downy Woodpecker is up and about, and a Tree Swallow swoops past. A Belted Kingfisher calls, then a Great Blue Heron soars high over Sapsucker Ridge, and well above and beyond it, a speck at lightning speed, the year’s first Chimney Swift heads over town. After a fruitless struggle, the fog loses out by a quarter past seven, and the Barn Swallow decides to spend the next while perching and chattering.
The Air Fills and the Starlings Give Way
On Tuesday it’s crystal clear and well above freezing, and when I step onto the balcony, a swallow-like shape erupts from the parking lot and flutters off, churt-ing, into the darkness. Later, a pair of newly-arrived Northern Rough-winged Swallows churt about overhead, and one dives low to a nearby wall, investigating a pipe opening as a potential nesting spot. A Yellow-bellied Sapsucker, unusual visitor to the confluence, mews.
Over by Plummer’s Hollow, a hulking Great Blue Heron exits a hidden roost and dives with a single purpose toward the river, out of sight beyond the overpass. By twenty after seven, the American Goldfinches are gathering to begin their daily clamor in the silver maples. A huge shape emerges from behind Bald Eagle Mountain, heading steadily northward, silently: last of the Tundra Swans.
After 11, it’s warm enough to work outside, and about time, too, because I’ve largely missed the good April raptor flights already. A distant cloud of vultures and ravens circles in the heat, and confuse themselves with hovering bumblebees, out in force today and often seeming anywhere as large as eagles and falcons.
Among the growing crowd of swallows and swifts in the sky, another new species arrives, first announced by its harsh call: Cliff Swallow, maybe stopping by to investigate an old nest under the I-99 overpass that I hope will be reused. I’m just glad to have something to look up at other than those pesky winter swallows, the starlings, who have largely abandoned aerial foraging to preen, display, and peck about the sycamores, or scour the parking lots and waste places for nesting material.
Right after noon, a small kettle of five Broad-winged Hawks and a Sharp-shinned Hawk appear over the point, circling for a bit and then streaming on northeastward along the flightpath. Not much happens after that except an Osprey at right before one—typical long-distance traveler, it never hesitates and never circles after appearing as a dot to the south, way down Brush Mountain, and sailing on out of sight beyond the towers, over the course of a couple minutes.
Around midnight, the year’s first Grasshopper Sparrow flight begins. An elusive species locally, like the Savannah Sparrow, it is a reliable transient to breeding grounds as far north as Ontario. Unlike the Savannah, however, we’ve never seen a Grasshopper on the ground here—you pretty much have to search them out in old strip mine sites.
Wednesday morning is much warmer, in the upper 40s, and still clear. American Goldfinches, continuing their banner year, chase each other in zizag motions across the sky, and by half past six, the sound of chittering high above alerts to the early egress of a Chimney Swift on its daily rounds. A rough-wing comes to perch on a low wire over the parking lot.
Another April phenomenon appears in the eastern dawn sky : Osprey, on jagged wings, glancing left and right, heading west, perhaps to one of the local reservoirs.
The sycamores to my right are now a local buffet spot, and a little group of Chipping Sparrows shows up briefly after seven to join the goldfinches who are there every day.
Not much later, Dave reports two Black-throated Green Warblers from his morning balcony perch. This is the earliest record I have of the species, and I suggest that Black-and-white Warblers are probably also in the woods by now. We’ll see tomorrow, before the warm spell ends. For now, rain is setting in, good for the bugs, good for the swallows.
Late in the afternoon, balmy and breezy, I get the opportunity to spend several hours watching the sky while working, glancing up enough not to miss the raptors. I know I can never get the daily numbers the hawk watches get without staring non-stop at the heavens, but at least I can do my due diligence on what is likely to be our biggest flight of the spring. Sure enough, the raptors are popping in just the right places: at 4:40, seven broad-wings are over Bald Eagle Mountain, having already crossed the Gap; they swirl east and out of sight. Small groups of broad-wings track up Brush Mountain from the south, cross the Gap, and continue, as the winds and sun make for a favorable 5-o’clock hour. A Red-shouldered Hawk soars past at one point, an Osprey at another. The first Purple Martin sails over.
At 5:28 PM, an unlikely mixed flock of five Black Vultures and nine broad-wings sweeps across the back side of the Gap, never circling, and is gone. The afternoon’s total count of broad-wings is 31, which means, I suspect, that hundreds were seen elsewhere at the major watch sites today.
By six, as Common Grackles gather in the sycamore, the last migrant raptors go by and the local Turkey Vultures begin their back-and-forth across town from Cemetery Hill to Bald and Brush, several times, until the light fades. The warm evening has an Eastern Phoebe doing display flights—or maybe it’s just highly vocal fly-catching—above Bald Eagle Creek, tossing and tumbling upward into the sky, seeming to pause at the apex, then perching on a treetop. On go the goldfinches, incessant squeaking, more than I can ever remember or feel like counting.
The torrent of song fades and it becomes hushed by seven, but activity continues for well over an hour. A Herring Gull, first-ever for April, flaps out of sight beyond Brush Mt., having plowed through a kettle of vultures, and grackles begin to go home: singles, pairs, groups large and small. Just after seven a local robin strikes up a song, which will carry it well past eight after everything else has gone to roost.
On Thursday, a balmy, breezy twilight after soaking rains overnight sees me trudging through a field lit with glow-worms, backed by a faint chorus of spring peepers. The sit spot today is at the neck of First Field, though this year I rarely sit, mostly pacing back and forth instead. Well before six, the dawn chorus is in full swing, with Eastern Towhees, White-throated Sparrows, Northern Cardinals, and Field Sparrows the dominant species.
From above the top of Sapsucker Ridge, a Killdeer cries a few times—this or another is vocal nearly every night now, and I suspect it’s nesting in the grass along the interstate, or slightly farther away in Grazierville. A Ring-billed Gull cries out as well, and I wonder what else the unsettled weather brought overnight (as it turns out, not much).
Warblers!
Weesy-weesy-weesy — the soft song of a Black-and-white Warbler comes from the tangled woods of Sapsucker Ridge, uncharacteristically early in the dawn progression. For me this marks the official start of the tropical wave, and it’s followed seconds later by the fluted notes of a Wood Thrush in the woods behind me on Laurel Ridge. No more than a minute passes before first one, then another Black-throated Green Warbler sings from Sapsucker, and a Black-throated Blue Warbler sings from the edge of the powerline. A Baltimore Oriole calls, and now two Wood Thrushes are singing.
An unremarkable start to a May morning, no doubt, but as it’s only April 18th, this qualifies as the earliest tropical fallout I’ve ever recorded. As I circle the field, I hear Black-throated Greens in their usual first locations; indeed, the other arrivals were also in their preferred spots. I count seven Black-throated Greens, but I don’t doubt that many more are out there.
With the species count above 50, I head back to the balcony, and am surprised by a late Rusty Blackbird on the wing, practically brushing the rooftops. I take my work outside, and at 8:47, the day’s first Common Loon goes over, number 60 for the morning. I wrap at 9 AM with 62 species, the highest count of 2024 so far.
In the evening, a leashed Pepe accompanies me for a list-less balcony sit. He loses it over every sparrow, finch, and robin, is alert to a Chimney Swift hundreds of feet up, and spots a Bald Eagle behind my back. Before collapsing for the night, we both watch the grackles’ return to roost at a quarter to eight.
Night of the Night Heron
At 11:40 PM on Thursday evening, the antenna picks up the four piercing, down-sliding notes of the year’s first Greater Yellowlegs, vanguard of the sandpiper migration.
Almost three hours later, around 2:20 AM, comes the squawk of a Black-crowned Night Heron (recently deprived of its hyphen), directly follow by the song of a philandering Field Sparrow. It’s the first night heron of either species we’ve recorded for the hotspot, and as with the bitterns, NFCs are pretty much the only way we’ll detect it. While it’s not uncommon to the east or west, here in the mountains it’s quite scarce, easiest to see at dawn at the bigger rivers and swampy reservoirs.
Turning Back the Clock
From Friday into the weekend, it’s as if the fallout never happened. Chickadees and titmouse are the dawn singers again, one often seeming to complete the song of the other. Along the tracks, a raw east wind carries the reek of Tyrone’s sewage, but no warblers. Rain on the way from the west, and the birds seem to feel it, keeping down and quiet.
Back at the balcony before 8 AM, a small drama unfolds. A robin is fighting a male grackle in the parking lot, all beaks and feathers, tumbling in the air. Then there’s a stand off, robin to one side, at attention, and grackle pecking about. A bit to the side is a starling, waddling about nonchalantly, long nesting straws clutched in its beak. After a minute or two, the starling and grackle fly off together into Grackleville, as the robin continues to yell. I didn’t see how the tiff began, but I would guess the robin is defending its nest under the garage eave.
On Saturday morning, the Barn Swallow is still alone, chattering on the wire. An Osprey soars along Bald Eagle Mountain, heading toward the river, just as the sun is peeking over. Chickadees chase each other around the balcony and through my hair.
After a lonely spell, the Barn Swallow takes off to join a grackle and a House Finch and the three fly together upstream.
Sunday brings an uncharacteristically cold, cloudy dawn in the upper twenties, with hard freeze warning all around. An ever-elusive Yellow-throated Warbler sings once from a distant foraging location up Bald Eagle Creek, while the most unexpected bird of the day is an Eastern Towhee, only because it’s drinking its tea from a pear tree right on 10th Street.
We take a lengthy hike around the hotspot later in the morning, but there’s no sign of Thursday’s fallout species, though this could just be due to the later hour. Nevertheless, the frigid temperatures seem to keep the birds down, and it takes hours just to hear the first (and only) Blue-headed Vireo as it sings weakly from deep woods up on Laurel Ridge.