Week 5 (Jan 29 - Feb 4 2024)
--Black Vultures usher in a new month, and White-breasted Nuthatches reach an all-time high--
Highlights
Winds on Thursday, Feb 1, brings the year’s first Black Vultures and a first-ever January Rough-legged Hawk
Four duck species at the pond
Crows, ravens, Red-tailed Hawks, and others are pairing up
A Purple Finch and a White-crowned Sparrow narrow the winter missing list
All-time high count of White-breasted Nuthatches
Log
Jan. 29 (Mon). AM: 17 spp. (balcony, 1 hr)
Jan 30 (Tues). AM: 12 spp. (balcony, 1hr)
Jan 31 (Wed). AM: 5 spp. (2-mi hike, 1 hr)
Feb 1 (Thurs). AM: 21 spp. (1-mi hike, 1.5 hrs). PM: 8 spp. (balcony, 25 mins at 12:45 PM and 2:57 PM)
Feb 2 (Fri). AM: 20 spp. (1-mi hike, 1 hr)
Feb 3 (Sat). AM: 13 spp. (balcony, 1 hr)
Feb 4 (Sun). AM: 39 spp. (7-mi hike, 5hrs 45min)
January dies in dusky mornings of deep cloud without a breeze, as the snowpack recedes to the tiniest of ridgetop patches. The river, thankfully, begins to fall. There are no more surprises, and the month ends at 63 species—a good total, higher than last year. For perspective, when the tropics return in May, 63 species is an expected number on a single morning before 8 AM.
Brave Commuters
At 6:58 AM on Monday, the two Common Ravens who were making a big racket after dark last night are back. They fly low over the parking lot in semidarkness, croaking lustily. I definitely think they’re an item.
Ten minutes later, the first Mourning Dove in ages hurtles over, heading south. Seconds after, along the banks of Bald Eagle Creek, the very nearest Song Sparrow begins to sing for the first time in 2024. He’ll sing every morning after this, without fail.
The evasive maneuvers of a Rock Pigeon flock, with accompanying scout, are understandable, but the first dozen-or-so manage to make it out of town and over the mountain without a mishap. A second flock spirals up at 7:30, dodging this way and that, and a Merlin stoops to the kill. It misses, however, and with no further ado flies out toward the towers. Later, a pair of Red-tailed Hawks ascend together out of the mountain and begin to hover.
On Tuesday, the air is stagnant and in its usual thirties. A few lingering American Robins are yelling at each other by not long after seven. Later, 11 pigeons take to the air without hesitation or evasive maneuvers, and today, no predator appears.
Three American Crows flap along Sapsucker Ridge, one haranguing another and the third remaining aloof. A bit later, the two ravens bridge the Gap, much higher up, flying within millimeters of each other. Not long before eight, when the sun would be peeking through, a Downy Woodpecker alights on one of the big old silver maples along the river. I marvel at the downy, consistently the last to appear nearly every morning, and at the maple, already covered in red buds in what is supposed to be the depths of winter.
In Like a Lion
February is the new March. Following last year’s lead, I expect a warm-up, a clear-up, plenty of updrafts, and the return of the vultures. Both species spend the winter a valley or two away, but don’t seem to be enamored of our local corner of the universe until January has run its course.
Time to get over to the pond. The wind is almost howling through the Gap under forbidding clouds, and something has now dragged the deer carcass several feet.
The Northern Pintail female is still the most skittish of the 19 ducks on the water, fleeing to the far end as soon as she sees me. New month, new species all-time for the month.
I spend some time along the privet thickets going the other direction toward Tyrone, where the Orange-crowned Warbler popped up last spring. But it’s still too early for anything.
Five Common Mergansers, all male, ignore the wind as they transit the Gap westward. The local pair of redtails and and the raven pair are both up early and close together, seemingly enjoying the gale.
Just before one, I step out to the balcony under storm clouds without rain—the kind of clouds that raptors love. The redtails appear within a couple minutes, and then the hulking shape of a Bald Eagle. Then, without warning, a lanky hawk with a long-ish tail, neither a redtail nor a harrier, appears from beyond the towers, heading south. It crosses the Gap and disappears over Plummer’s Hollow, perhaps to visit First Field, or just to transit toward Sinking Valley. A Rough-legged Hawk, scarce and cryptic visitor from the north!
At least I didn’t half to wait almost the entire year to see one in 2024, but it begs the question: what’s the status of this individual? My idea is that it’s a winter resident hanging about in Nittany Valley or Sinking Valley, staying mostly unseen from my vantage point, like the Northern Harriers that winter as well. Harriers (which I still haven’t seen this year) only appear to my balcony eyes on these very windy days, seeming to hop onto the ridge for a lift southward to another valley and fresh hunting grounds. Roughlegs are much rarer than harriers, and don’t even use ridges much in migration, generally staying low and out in the valleys.
Rough-legged Hawks are in the avian group of Plummer’s Hollow species that I still don’t have a good method, other than pure luck, of detecting, or, better put, intercepting. Another bird of prey, however, is becoming all too predictable. I step back onto the balcony briefly before 3 PM, and though it’s only in the forties, the sun is beating down and the clouds have finally parted. I scan the backdrop of cumulus clouds and blue sky over the Gap, and there they are: three Black Vultures, high up, circling a bit as they glide from some winter home in the east for a brief exploration of the west. Right on schedule: February has now truly arrived!
The winds continue on a cloudy Friday, with a dawn temperature in the low 40s, but it’s still a bit raw along the tracks. At the pond, the individual American Wigeon, Green-winged Teal, and Northern Pintail are close together for the first time, along with six Mallards. The pintail is getting less skittish, perhaps recognizing that I’m not a threat.
Across the tracks from the cliffs, A Winter Wren’s cascading song, and then the wild calls of American Goldfinches on their way to a catkin feast up on Laurel Ridge. One zig-zagging group is eight, but many more are lost to sight, and their cries are so loud that at one point I mistake them for Killdeer.
Finally, on Saturday, the crystal clear returns. The photo doesn’t capture the spectacular lavender glow in the east. With clear comes cold, but even in the lower 20s the robins are singing before seven. The Song Sparrow also carols on key, the best part of this proto-Spring. A few minutes after the hour, with light coming on fast, the raven pair appears and disappears.
Around 45 pigeons ascend into the calm sky, a tight mass of birds flanked by an escort who wanders in and out of them, climbing higher, circling wider around the circles they make. After four loops above the interstate, the coast is clear, and the flock changes directions and heads toward the toe of Bald Eagle Mountain. The escort turns back toward town, and in some trick of the atmosphere, vanishes in front of my eyes.
Later, a female House Finch perched in a tree along 10th Street makes that querulous, upward-sliding note I often heard last year when trying to contact a male. Part of the Sinking Valley Canada Goose flock shows up, nine of them in a single line strung out against the mountain, heading north.
Sun hits the balcony at 7:35 AM today, and the European Starlings, House Sparrows, and robins are ready, perched in the tops of the tallest trees to right and left. A stream of false positives issues from Merlin as the starlings fire up: Cedar Waxwing, American Goldfinch, Blue Jay, Dark-eyed Junco, Tufted Titmouse. A few minutes later, an actual titmouse goes off, and then a jay.
By eight, the show belongs to the Blue Jays. Three show up from the north side of town, lingering about the confluence treetops. Their oboe-like calls to each other, as always, drag up some ancient, infantile memory of the most marvelous emotions. Off they go, back north, but a moment later, a fourth appears. Left behind, it calls in their direction, minute after minute.
Trekking the Full Circuit
Sunday promises unbroken sunlight and warmth, but tell that to the 20-degree woods at 6:30 AM. The terrain is snow-free and dry enough for trail shoes, but it’s still a tough, 20-minute climb up from the gate to the crest of Laurel Ridge. On the way, faint clucking in the treetops alerts me to Wild Turkeys who, one after the other, crash out into the Gap with heavy wingbeats, crossing to sunnyside.
I crest the ridge before 6:50 and make it to a seldom-visited sit spot where our property overlooks a corner of Sinking Valley, a couple small villages, and a massive stone quarry. Just in time: A White-throated Sparrow whispers from the thick, invasive brush below, and a Northern Cardinal starts to tick, followed by a distant Carolina Wren. Already by seven, I hear crows somewhere out there, and ravens not long after that.
At a quarter past, loud honking. I wonder if the local Canada Goose flock spends its nights on the inaccessible water covering the deep gashes of ancient quarry holes. The site would be a good candidate for waterfowl, being off-limits to the public. Unfortunately, it is invisible from all vantage points up here.
The honking grows louder, and 20 geese stream by, not far above the fields, passing over Tyrone Forge. Perhaps they’re headed toward the railroad pond—as they quiet down, I hear loud quacking from a Mallard over that way. Later, two more flocks of geese leave the same way, some 50 in all for the morning.
Up here at the ridge crest, on top of hard Bald Eagle sandstone and thanks to the crumbly nature of Reedsville Shale, the mountain drops off almost sheer to the fields below, with invasive thickets dotted by tall trees, a forest lumbered every time the stems reach marketable age. Facing southeastward, this side of the mountain gets the sun early and often, and it’s no surprise to hear a Hermit Thrush and an Eastern Towhee among the crowds of robins, goldfinches, jays, and crows.
Around 7:20 the sun hits me, as robins fly south through the valley in small flocks, well over 100 in all, joined at one point by Red-winged Blackbirds. As the cacophony fades, I fold the chair and begin a brisk walk south along the ridge crest, expecting woodpeckers.
Day of the Nuthatch
And woodpeckers I get, unsurprisingly, given the concentration of dead oaks up here. The first of 15 Red-bellied Woodpeckers for the day comes in close to investigate me, followed by three more. I doubt their numbers are higher in the winter, just that they are making much more noise now. The same goes for the Hairy Woodpeckers, even more curious, with six today the same amount as the less vocal downies.
Four Black-capped Chickadees come in to the nearest understory tree, a few feet away, to check me out. Dark-eyed Juncos and whitethroats linger farther off. A bit later, I see the whitethroats feasting on multiflora rosehips.
In twos, threes, and even fours, the White-breasted Nuthatches are at their most vocal, at every turn. This goes on for hours, and the count ends at 31, an all-time high for the hotspot and the county.
At the powerline, the sun is already beating down, and Eastern Bluebirds are on the wing, singing as they fly. Tufted Titmice are making a wide range of sounds, including rare vocalizations I seem to hear most in the so-called depths of winter, on warm days like this.
Around the entrance to the Far Field, Golden-crowned Kinglets are about, and Brown Creepers, but the most active are the goldfinches, feasting on black birch catkins.
Newbies
As usual, one big crowd of sparrows is feeding in the blackberry and barberry patch at the narrowest part of First Field below the spruce grove. As I go by, they flush back up toward the grove: juncos, whitethroats, Song Sparrows, but nothing unusual. At the other end of the field, however, a sparrow cloud includes American Tree Sparrows and three Field Sparrows, not at all shy, that eventually break into song at a little coaxing. With only one detection of a single Field before this all winter, I have to wonder whether they were over here all along, or have just moved in. And then a surprise: a calling and singing White-crowned Sparrow, a rarity up here in the winter, though regular in the valley.
Mostly, however, it’s whitethroats by the hundreds, a surprising number this late in the season. They’re down in the thickest thickets, and flee in waves as I near. Passing the caretaker’s house, now with bird feeders, I hear the song of the year’s first Purple Finch from somewhere up in the patch of tall, old Norway Spruce. Not far away, a Winter Wren sings.
It’s after 11 and activity has mostly faded, and the nuthatches have fallen silent. Mustering up some final energy, I head over for a quick look at the pond, all the time glancing at the sky for that elusive Turkey Vulture (no luck yet). Finally, I get a few passable shots of a well-reflected female Northern Pintail.
Today, she’s no more scared of me than the Mallards, but they’re all still quite wary, and quickly fly down to the far end.
Prognosis for February
Last year’s antenna project is slow going, but the end of October is night, leaving only September to ID. I don’t think it will be done before the antenna goes back up in a couple weeks to catch the first Gadwall and Long-tailed Ducks in migration.
Other than the commencement of waterfowl migration, there isn’t much new expected for February. Here are the species I’d like me or someone else to get, but none of them are urgent. They are species that should be in the area, and a few early migrants or winter movers, but are difficult to detect in the hotspot itself:
Northern Harrier
Red-shouldered Hawk
Brown-headed Cowbird
Belted Kingfisher
Swamp Sparrow
Killdeer
Rusty Blackbird
Ring-billed Gull
Herring Gull
American Woodcock
Ruffed Grouse