Highlights
Tundra Swans head north day and night (Tues)
A lone Cedar Waxwing stays around (Wed)
Blackbirds back, grackles getting closer (Thurs)
The first Ring-billed Gull appears (Sat)
First-ever sighting of a Horned Lark flock (Sun)
More blackbirds, including the first (and 1st-ever Feb) Rusty (Sun)
76 species so far for 2024, 7 ahead of Jan/Feb 2023
Log
Feb 19 (Mon). AM: 20 spp. (balcony, 1 hr).
Feb 20 (Tues). AM: 21 spp. (balcony, 1 hr).
Feb 22 (Thurs). AM: 21 spp. (balcony, 1 hr).
Feb 23 (Fri). AM: 19 spp. (balcony, 1 hr).
Feb 24 (Sat). AM: 32 spp. (1.5-mi. hike, 2 hrs).
Feb 25 (Sun). AM: 42 spp. (5-mi. hike, 3.75 hrs).
In town, the starling-and-robin feast is winding down and the Peregrine Falcon is gone. The winter duck crowd has abandoned the pond. The woods reverberate with woodpecker drumming, and small flocks of icterids come and go over the mountain and through the Gap. Geese, swans, and mergansers are on the move. Everywhere, the dawn choruses are earlier, louder, longer, and more tuneful.
Monday begins what promises to be a clear and wintery week, little deterrence to the spring songs of American Robins, Song Sparrows, and Northern Cardinals, up and out already by 6:30 AM. By 7, two Red-tailed Hawks are hovering side by side over Bald Eagle Mountain, nearly stationary—I would guess they’re the same pair as last year, and, once again, have a nest up there somewhere.
Merlin hears a grackle, but I think it’s still just starling.
Tuesday Swans
It’s bitter cold today, and the temperature has dropped precipitously to 10 degrees by 6:30 AM. Like yesterday, a handful of Mallards spiral down to the river nearby, evidently displaced from the pond or whichever other locations have frozen up again. This morning, the ducks are making a ruckus, quacking and splashing somewhere over by the bridge. Later, 11 of them—5 pairs and an extra male—float past the confluence and bob on downstream.
As the White-breasted Nuthatch starts yammering from a distant tree over the roar of the interstate, a shouting argument erupts in the parking lot between two kids and their dogs. Profanities, insults, one kid storms away with his tiny, be-sweatered mutt. A Winter Wren, disturbed, calls a few times and then breaks into song.
I receive a screen shot from the mountain: Eric Oliver, who lives in the caretaker’s house, has picked up Tundra Swan on Bird Weather thanks to his 24/7 outside microphone (you can monitor it live: “Eric’s PUC” at https://app.birdweather.com/data). I had mentioned that it seemed to be about that time. As if on cue, minutes later, as I’m scanning a Rock Pigeon flock, a line of nine swans goes over, high up and too far away to hear, heading slightly west of north. These aren’t the first of the year, but the message is clear: the northward migration has begun. Long-tailed Ducks, Killdeer, and others can’t be far behind.
At 7:34 AM the sun hits the balcony, and it has warmed back up to 13.
Pepe and the Eagle
Wednesday is a bit warmer, and still dry. Once again, Mallards circle and splash down nearby. Robins are coming and going, high up, not the huge flocks of January, but moving differently than they have in recent weeks. While their territories about town are staked out, many are on the move again, presumably searching out less palatable fare outside town, as the fruit trees here have finally been stripped.
A large gathering of starlings and robins in the sycamore triggers the typical false positives on Merlin, which I ignore. And then, one high-itched scree reveals a Cedar Waxwing, the first since early January. Those were remnants of last fall’s flocks, but this one seems to have integrated itself into the robin horde and stayed behind as its nomadic brethren headed to more fruitful realms. I saw this same phenomenon last winter.
The waxwing calls and calls, and after a minute or two flies up and about, and then away across town. Doubtless there are others about somewhere, but I will be quite surprised if I see another one before May, when they return to breed.
The local Common Raven trio then makes an appearance. This year, no croak-y raven is in the junkyard, and some mornings I don’t see the species at all. These three may be roosting up on Bald Eagle Mountain somewhere; they typically fly across, two cavorting together and the third keeping a slight distance. They’re up and into Plummer’s Hollow within a few minutes.
Pepe is out today, staring in amazement at the comings and goings of House Finches, starlings, and robins, jerking his head to and fro to catch very near and distant movement. This is possibly more stimulating even than his laser. These days, he’s been spending long hours going from window to window to watch robins eating fruit and the local starling murmuration that’s been blackening the afternoons.
Suddenly, an adult Bald Eagle swings into sight from downriver, coming uncharacteristically close to the balcony, brushing the tops of the sycamores about 50 feet away. It turns its head to glance at us and banks upriver, without hesitating. Pepe never takes his eyes off it.
Grackles Are Back!
Another clear morning around freezing. House Sparrows are courting in the hedgerows, the males in their brilliant brown hues hopping around, dragging their wings. Later, they poke and probe into the open spaces between brick walls and eaves.
Just after 7, the sky is filled with birds. Robins are circling and diving, calling, singing, landing closer to stare at me, perching in the ash trees facing east, leaving town in small flocks. The propane tank robin, possibly a male who will nest under the garage eave across the lot, hops from one yellow concrete barrier post to the next, yelling.
American Crows are also noticeably more excited, every day going in a new direction, coming from some roost west of town. They’re more often in pairs now.
At 7:08, a mixed flock of 24 Common Grackles and a few Brown-headed Cowbirds and Red-winged Blackbirds goes over, heading toward the Gap. It is definitely time, but I wonder, how soon will it be until the grackles alight on the tallest sycamore and take over the morning, starting the recolonization of Grackleville? Perhaps next week with warmer weather; last year, there were far higher number of icterids around town in late winter, so perhaps the competition for prime courtship and nesting sites won’t be as intense this February.
By 7:30, things have calmed down considerably. Three American Goldfinches alight on the nearest sycamore and probe at its still-hanging balls of seed.
On Friday, it’s a bit above freezing, wet, and cloudy, with puddles from last night’s rain. Ending a five-day balcony stretch, today tops out at 19 species, just a hair below the week’s amazingly consistent totals of 20 and 21 species.
The sonorous, wet echoes of thrush song from around town, bouncing off pavements and walls, recalls thrush choruses from across the Americas, heard everywhere from the depths of Mexico City to the heights of the most remote cloud forests. When it’s the season, thrushes overwhelm all else, adding hours to the day on both sides, staking out the sound spaces until the first Song Sparrow or cardinal gets a word in edgewise at dawn, and after the last of these, or a Carolina Wren, quiets down at dusk.
The icterids are still about, lower and closer today, but no grackles land. By the afternoon, it has warmed into the 50s, pushing the Turkey Vultures up, and robins are still going well after 6 PM.
The Tracks
The warmth will have to wait. Saturday starts raw and blustery, with time to visit the pond. The moon is up late, having crossed the Gap and now setting over Sapsucker Ridge, huge and yellow. It seems uncharacteristically dark and quiet for 6:40 AM; I would have expected the first cardinals to sound off by now. And then I realize it’s only 5:40—in my eagerness to leave the house after five days straight online, I added a whole hour. Nothing for it; I pull out my chair and wait, as no less than seven trains come and go in the darkness. There’s a chill today despite the above-freezing temperatures; after this is done, it takes me the rest of the morning back inside to get warm again.
Out of the nothing, at 6:22 AM, a crystal-clear choop, repeated several times and fast, is a cardinal over in Redstart Swamp. Distant robin and then another cardinal, ticking. Before 6:30, as Mallards start splashing down, there’s a Song Sparrow that sounds like a Winter Wren, and a Winter Wren that sounds like a Song Sparrow. Then there are more of each, calling and singing from the rim of the pond, the cliffs, the swamp. A pair of Wood Ducks settles into a slough near the river.
When it’s light enough to see, I scan the pond, but it’s only Mallards and muskrats now. No worries—in a few weeks, it may start picking up a Hooded Merganser, Gadwall, or something else passing through.
Around 7:15, a V of 110 Canada Geese emerges confusedly over the top of Sapsucker Ridge. They’re not too high up, and not so resolutely pointed north as the swans were on Tuesday, but they seem more likely to be long-distance migrants than locals, who I believe number only around 75. It’s hard to tell; mostly, the locals seems to be in pairs now, staking out nesting sites.
Seven grackles pass over, flying toward Tyrone. As the gorgeous sunrise dies in grayish cold clouds, a solitary Ring-billed Gull circles about over the river beyond the pond, as if searching for something. In typical gull fashion, however, it makes its way obliquely upstream, and after about ten minutes it’s transited the Gap and is passing over Tyrone, where I lose sight of it. Meanwhile, a nice group of Turkey Vultures, with two Black Vultures, is congregating over Sapsucker Ridge, after which they catch the wind and head to Bald Eagle Mountain.
The Chorus Down Below
If Sunday were a little warmer, the woodcock would be back at the base of the powerline in Sinking Valley. You can hear them from up on top. Perhaps they are back, but I make it to the sit spot on Laurel Ridge a bit late this Sunday, weighed down by heavy boots to help keep out the 19-degree chill. At the garage around 6 AM, I heard a distant Great Horned Owl, and as I crest the ridge, I can still see Venus rising in the eastern sky—moonlight behind, sunlight ahead.
At 6:17, a cardinal’s chew-chew-chew from the tangles below. White-throated Sparrows rustle about the nearby scrub oaks, mostly emitting flight calls as they head off to breakfast at Mom’s feeders or somewhere in the valley. A Mourning Dove coos from far off, and another answers from close at hand, already courting.
The gurgly subsong of a Song Sparrow from a few feet away takes minutes to resolve itself into something more respectable. Then, a hanger-on Eastern Towhee reeps around a dozen times from the tangles, followed by Carolina Wrens and a Northern Mockingbird somewhere. By 6:30, 11 species have already made their presence known, followed minutes later by the soft clucks of a Hermit Thrush.
And then the Wild Turkeys. They’re vocalizing half the night these days, and the local females are making their odd calls now at dawn, followed later by some gobbling gobblers.
The first starling pod streams over at 6:40, heading toward Tyrone; other small flocks follow. A sharp call alerts me to a single grackle flying by.
The sun crests Tussey Mountain at 6:57, with 25 species already detected. Nearby, a small group of Golden-crowned Kinglets and Black-capped Chickadees moves through the scrub oaks, stopping to check me out and scold before heading off to forage through grape tangles.
A Flock of Larks
For 48 years, up until the NFC night flight recording era, Horned Larks were absent from the Plummer’s Hollow list. We just don’t have the type of open, stubbly fields they prefer. Since then, they have shown up in spring and fall night migration, sometimes as single birds emitting their distinctive call notes and sometimes in apparently large (but largely uncountable) numbers. In all this time, however, we’ve never even been able to see one fly over during the day; they seem to stick close to their Sinking Valley fields, where they are found throughout the year.
It’s long been my idea that I might someday be able to spot a lark flock on the stubble in the nearest fields down below, and today, it finally happens. There’s a particularly productive rise with corn stubble where the crows and pigeons are congregating, and several times, a swirling mass of Horned Larks—I list 20, but I suspect there are many more—lift up on tan-colored wings, then disappear again as they touch the ground. Seen from the hotspot, though not in the hotspot: not so edifying, but it counts!
A Siskin and a Sapsucker
Yesterday, it certainly sounded like a siskin flew over Eric’s recorder, even though the last ones seem to have left the area at the beginning of the year. But at 7:12 AM, a single Pine Siskin rockets high over my head, coming from Sinking Valley and heading west, making its distinctive flight call, perhaps off to someone’s feeder.
By 7:30, the list is already at 31 species, a much greater dawn haul than you could get anywhere else around, I think. Among all the booming and tapping of woodpeckers large and small, the Morse code taps of a Yellow-bellied Sapsucker waft up from below, and then a Northern Flicker. Perhaps neither of these is in Plummer’s Hollow itself right now, but with last week’s Red-headed Woodpecker, it’s nice to know that we are, literally, surrounded by all seven local woodpecker species this early in the year.
To avoid the blinding sun, I amble south along the ridgetop and then do a brief circuit of First Field, flushing excited groups of Dark-eyed Juncos. A White-breasted Nuthatch, surprisingly immobile, perches near the top of a tree and calls. House Finches come and go, and beyond the shed, a brilliant red male cardinal poses in a small black walnut at the field’s edge, singing defensively in response to my pishing. I suspect I’ve strayed into its territory, which also apparently includes Dave’s house below, where it spends the best hours of the day bashing out its brain cells against the reflective panes.
Later, when I’m back at the garage, a low-flying group of blackbirds goes over, including at least one Rusty Blackbird, the first of the year.