Highlights
Ruffed Grouse in a spicebush thicket (Sat)
Red-headed Woodpecker along the edge of the valley (Sat)
Hermit Thrush and Yellow-bellied Sapsucker hang on (Sat)
Tyrone is deluged by European Starlings and American Robins (all week)
A Red-tailed Hawk pursues a Bald Eagle (Sat)
The year’s total species count reaches 72
Log
Feb 12 (Mon). AM: 20 spp. (balcony, 50 min).
Feb 13 (Tues). AM: 15 spp. (1-mi. hike, 1hr).
Feb 14 (Wed). AM: 16 spp. (1-mi. hike, 1 hr). PM: 7 spp. (balcony, 4 min)
Feb 15 (Thurs). AM: 17 spp. (balcony, 1 hr). PM: 5 spp. (balcony, 7 min)
Feb 16 (Fri). AM: 15 spp. (balcony, 45 min).
Feb 17 (Sat). AM: 33 spp. (7-mi. hike, 5 hrs). PM: 6 spp. (balcony, 6 min)
Feb 18 (Sun). AM: 17 spp. (balcony, 1 hr).
A wintry week with two snows. As rural food sources are exhausted, robins and starlings crowd into town, stripping the fruit trees and filling the afternoons with celebration. Great Backyard Bird Count arrives, and it’s time for a trek to the depths of the hotspot in search of the winter’s rarest birds.
Monday, it’s a gray 24 on the balcony, and the Winter Wren, now flagged ‘Rare’ on eBird, starts singing again before 7. The nearest White-breasted Nuthatch emits its 8-note nasal melody over and over until buried by the garbage train; I wonder if it’s dug into last fall’s cache yet.
At 7:18, 2 Common Mergansers cruise in low over town from the east. Another 6 arrive minutes later, and 2 more pass over much higher up 4 minutes after that. All are males. A flock of 17 House Finches leaves town along Bald Eagle ridge toward the Gap, their normal route.
Redbird Ruckus
Not long after 7:30, a rarely glimpsed Northern Cardinal drama unfolds. Much of the year, this species keeps low in the undergrowth along the stream and the river, and I don’t see them from the balcony from one week to the next. Today, however, loud, insistent ticking alerts me to a pair that have alighted near the top of a sycamore to my right. Two brownish females are apparently angry at each other; one flies at the other and they disappear from my sight upriver. Second later, the local male arrives, ticking furiously, then heads in the direction of the females.
Fifteen minutes later the male returns alone, calling, and alights in the sycamore briefly before disappearing behind the garage that blocks my view of Bald Eagle Creek.
In the interlude, a Black Vulture emerged from Sapsucker Ridge somewhere, flap-gliding eastward.
Muskrat Madness
A fast-moving sapling bender is motive enough to check out the pond on Tuesday. Only six Mallards are there, and the Northern Pintail female is once again by herself, looking distraught; its been a while since I’ve seen the wigeon or the teal.
The stars this morning are six muskrats clustered around a fallen black cherry trunk, unaware of my presence. Two are on top, gnawing steadily at the bark. A dozen yards away, their lodge is looking tidy.
In town, despite the weather, robins started up by not long after 4 AM, but out here, all is hushed through the dawn save for a noisy Hairy Woodpecker. The snow’s mostly gone by the end of the day—back to gray.
Wednesday starts with a prowl for owls, really just an excuse to get some exercise up the road. It’s dead silent.
Nothing new showed up after the storm—Mallards and pintail are still at the pond. The surprise this morning is a long, straggling murder of over 40 American Crows issuing from the back side of Bald Eagle Mountain, heading raucously past the pond on their way to Sinking Valley. Later, more crows are vocalizing in the Gap, landing in the trees above a wintering hobo’s camp, cawing loudly, as they do every morning.
After 5 PM, the incessant call of a nuthatch rouses me to a work break and I check out the balcony. A few robins and a small flock of starlings are perched in the sycamore closest at hand, all facing west, lit up by the setting sun, gurgling and crowing.
Cacophony
On Thursday, dawn is 15 degrees, and I get my first and last glimpse of the Peregrine Falcon this week. At 7:26, it flies eastward along the ridgetop, past the towers, and eventually disappears over the other side.
Not long after seven, a Mourning Dove rockets over the balcony. Mostly, I miss this species’ much earlier departure—they tend to leave before first light to hit the feeders up on the mountain and elsewhere out of town.
The falcon threat gone, the first Rock Pigeons lift off at 7:33 AM. Checking last year’s birds, I see that a sizeable Icterid flock was hanging about; this year, blackbirds have been almost entirely absent in February, so the return of the grackle may come a bit later.
Not long after 3 PM, a crowd forms outside the living room window, and Pepe is transfixed from his post on the radiator. Hundreds of starlings wheel by, alighting on the tallest trees, their noise reaching a crescendo then abruptly stopping a split second before take off. Smaller groups break off and swarm the fruit trees, then carry their repast back up into the treetops. Within the larger flock of some 300 starlings (presumably a fraction of the total in Tyrone right now), at least 40 robins are holding their ground, calling, singing, feasting.
As the starling parades goes on, other swoop in from out of town. Up against the gray, nine Turkey Vultures arrive from over Sapsucker Ridge, kettling for a bit then disappearing above the rooftops. Seconds later, eight more emerge on the north end of town and circle over Bald Eagle Mt. The starlings go on and on—hush, fly, commotion; hush, fly, commotion.
Friday is an unremarkable repeat of the same species and same activity all day, a low-key kick-off of the Great Backyard Bird Count, one of the lesser-known of the many annual mass bird-counting events across the country. Lore I’ve heard is that it is a way to get people out and get data for one of the least interesting times of the year, weeks after the best winter holdovers have either perished or moved on, and weeks until the kickoff of spring migration. Tbe birding doldrums, as it were.
Plummer’s Hollow Cryptid
Late Friday, a rare reversal of weather reports occurred. These days, with weather websites competing for clicks, every impending snowstorm, flurry, or squall is hyped, but most don’t pan out. This one managed to surprise, dumping a few inches of powder overnight and leaving a temperature in the 20s. I had planned a long hike into some of the nooks and crannies I’ve neglected this winter to see if I can turn up any more winter species. Nothing for it: I strap on the snow boots and head up toward the thickest thickets of Sapsucker Ridge.
In the deep hollow, faint calls of nuthatches and Parids sound from the canopy far overhead, as a Red-tailed Hawk, flashing white against white, flies low over the trees against brilliant blue.
Somewhere along Greenbriar Trail, the nuthatches, Black-capped Chickadees, and Tufted Titmice become bold enough to scold me, though they’ve got to shake quite a bit of snow off the branches to get decent footing. A Hermit Thrush clucks from a snow-covered witch hazel thicket—nice to know at least one has made it this far into the season. Pileated Woodpeckers cackle as they beat their way through the trees, against the bands of sunlight, and odd sounds that could be anything from thrushes to sapsuckers to squirrels, but are probably just tree squeaks, give me the idea that something else is happening.
That something else erupts from a few feet away! Finally, a Ruffed Grouse has made an appearance in 2024. Dave, who’s been seeing them at higher elevations on this same mountain and elsewhere in the region, is quite surprised when I tell him the news. Certainly, this is our scarcest resident, and for all we know, the sightings and drummings we detect throughout the year are of this same individual. It’s been several years since we’ve had evidence of breeding.
This particular grouse was caught out by the storm, and I am intrigued by the fact it chose to spend time under a large spicebush clump. Not only that, but it exploded upslope through a veritable grove of the species. Grouse numbers have crashed here, as in many places, due to disease, but I wonder whether the onslaught of thorny invasives has also contributed to the species’ difficulties becoming re-established at these elevations. On the rare occasions I still detect grouse, they are sheltered in clumps of native shrubs and always explode into low-orbit, undergrowth flight; I can’t imagine it’s easy for a species with such behavior to navigate thickets of barberry, multiflora rose, and privet.
Overall counts of White-throated Sparrows and other thicket birds are low today, as I don’t have the time or the stamina to rouse them from the weeds, and I’ve still got far to go. Dark-eyed Juncos are about as always, singing together with American Goldfinches and House Finches all about the black walnuts around the houses.
Up along the ridge, a Red-tailed Hawk pops into sight by the powerline, and lands in a tree. By the time I get the long lens out it’s already heading north down ridge, out of sight toward the interstate.
Five minutes later, the hawk re-emerges over the powerline cut, in hot pursuit of an adult Bald Eagle. The eagle has some tan-hued rodent in its claws that it isn’t interested in giving up, and while the hawk flies close, it doesn’t dare attack the much larger bird. The hawk pursues the eagle across the cloudless sky overhead, and they eventually disappear past Laurel Ridge, toward Sinking Valley. Perhaps the eagle, who has a solid reputation as a kleptoparasite, snatched a morning meal from the hawk down along their I-99 hunting grounds.
Beyond Far Field, thickets coat the hollows filled with roaring streams that dump into the pastures of Sinking Valley. Winter Wrens bounce about the rocks. I take a swing along the edge of the hotspot, as the wind, buffeting the trees, dumps truckloads of snow on me. Invasive patches are thick with juncos and sparrows, and I have to wonder how many of these have moved down from above as resources have grown scarcer.
At one point, something large flushes—not an owl or a grouse; probably an Accipiter. The weird noises and elusive flashes finally resolve into the mew of a Yellow-belied Sapsucker on one side, and the chatter of a Red-headed Woodpecker in front. It makes sense that a red-head would be hanging out here, with easy access to farms and pastures. Oddly enough, with large numbers of all the other woodpeckers, including courting Hairies, the only species missing today is the Northern Flicker, which has definitely withdrawn from the hotspot for the winter.
The long hike back to the gate is uneventful, and the pond is empty. However, a flock of over 50 goldfinches, tossed about like leaves with a purpose, is one of the largest I’ve ever seen in the winter. As usual, they’re hanging close to the black birches on Laurel Ridge.
The Dry Spell Begins
Sunday’s a work day, but broth on the balcony is still a must. Despite the cold—it’s back in the teens—and the snow (squalls throughout the day yesterday left us back in white), the robins are up early and the Song Sparrow and Northern Cardinal continue their daily dawn songs. The Downy Woodpecker shows up by 7:20, but it’s no longer the latest of the risers. That distinction belongs to the Blue Jay, which signals its presence about town at 7:29 AM.
In other news, I’ve finally finished IDing the thousands of October NFCs, leaving only September’s to slog through. It’s gonna be March before it’s done.