Highlights
Tundra Swans, Rusty Blackbirds, and Pine Siskins throughout the week
Sharp-shinned Hawk visits the confluence (Mon)
Belted Kingfisher is back (Tues)
The first American Woodcock (Fri)
Field Sparrows singing on territory (Fri)
The first Fish Crow in town (Fri)
Killdeer appear on Saturday, with a nice flight on Sunday
A pair of Ruffed Grouse at a drumming log (Sun)
80 species so far for 2024
Six new species all-time for February (88 total)
Log
Feb 26 (Mon). AM: 18 spp. (balcony, 1 hr).
Feb 27 (Tues). AM: 31 spp. (1-mi. hike, 2 hrs).
Feb 28 (Wed). AM: 28 spp. (1-mi. hike, 1.5 hrs).
Feb 29 (Thurs). AM: 21 spp. (1-mi. hike, 1.25 hrs).
Mar 1 (Fri). AM: 37 spp. (1-mi. hike, 2 hrs). PM: 8 spp. (balcony, 25 min).
Mar 2 (Sat). AM: 15 spp. (1.5-mi. hike, 1 hrs). PM: 11 spp. (balcony, 8 min).
Mar 3 (Sun). AM: 40 spp. (7-mi. hike, 4.75 hrs).
Monday, clear and 27, turns out to be the only balcony day of the week. Just before 7 AM, a lopsided V of 17 Tundra Swans is overhead, silent. They’re not unexpected: several flocks of indeterminate size streamed over last night.
The Landing
As the swans disappear, an American Robin begins to emit the high-pitched tseee! alarm call common to all the thrushes in these parts. Sure enough, a Sharp-shinned Hawk is perched high in the confluence sycamore, facing the mountain. A Common Grackle pair, new in town, circles low over the tree but opts to find somewhere else to alight. European Starlings back off as well, and within a couple minutes, as the robin continues its alarm every two seconds, almost all bird activity ceases.
At 7:09, seven minutes and over 200 alarm calls later, the robin falls silent. I glance at the sycamore and the sharpie is gone. Activity returns to the sky, and very quickly, grackles, starlings, House Sparrows, and House Finches are back to their busy schedules.
Precisely at 7:24 AM, for the first time this year, a male and female grackle alight on a sycamore tree close the bank, pioneers in Grackleville 2024.
Well before 6 AM on Tuesday, light-triggered Song Sparrows have joined the robins in a pre-dawn chorus in town, but along the tracks, they don’t start up until a more respectable 6:15 AM. Winter Wrens sing back and forth to, or with, each other, one up on the cliffs and the other by the river.
A pair of Rusty Blackbirds flies past not far from me, and minutes later a low-flying mixed flock of Icterids skims the trees along the Little Juniata. At the pond, only a handful of Mallards are puttering about.
A Belted Kingfisher rattles loudly and repeatedly from the river. This species abandons our stretch of water in the winter, maybe because the fish are scarce or too hard to get? This one’s probably from not far away, as I think it’s a bit too early for migration.
Heavy downpours with thunder on Tuesday evening, and on Wednesday morning it’s still raining. But as Duck Month nears, it’s crucial to get out at dawn as much as possible in the hopes of glimpsing one or another of the hotspot’s elusive waterfowl fly-bys.
It’s in the upper 40s and quite humid: feels like an early May morning, and what birds are here are undeterred by the damp. Winter Wrens are everywhere—two here near the bridge, and more down the tracks in both directions. I had never realized there were so many of this species around in the winter—or perhaps it’s just a banner year. The river current, once again, is too rough for ducks, but at the pond, the Green-winged Teal has made a reappearance after a weeks-long absence, in the company of a few Mallards.
Once again, a Rusty Blackbird pair flies by, with more numerous grackles, also in pairs, going past as well, mostly from the direction of Tyrone toward Sinking Valley.
Right at 7, three male Common Mergansers go by low overhead, west. I often wonder whether these are long-distance migrants off to an early morning start, or locals; because I occasionally glimpse mergs going the other direction at dusk, I suspect that the latter is the case.
The Cloud
With all the damp, the rise in Icterid numbers isn’t unexpected. By 7:20, several larger flocks have passed over, capped by a mass of some 250 out of the west at 7:25, mostly grackles with a scattering of Red-winged Blackbirds and much smaller Brown-headed Cowbirds mixed in. I can see them all a lot better out here—in town, only the grackles typically land or come up close, as the red-wings will eventually settle out in marshes and around farm ponds, and cowbirds up in the woods. For now, at least, they’re all still gregarious as they recolonize the area. Only the Rusties will abandon us entirely for northern climes.
Suddenly, two falcon-like birds rocket down from on high, disturbing the rest of the swirling avifauna not a bit. It’s quite amazing how falcon-like Mourning Doves can appear when they are in courtship mode.
Rain, thunder, dark clouds—the worse the weather, the louder the birds. Even the Brown Creepers are undeterred. Their winter haunt, I’ve learned, is the thick brush west of the crossing. Thanks to the fact that I’ve learned their variety of wispy calls, I now realize how common this species is (or, again, maybe it’s just this year) but, like the Winter Wrens, at the same time how cryptic. Today, only one is calling, but sometimes, there are two or three up and active—and invisible, keeping low and out of sight.
Leap Day
Another trip to the pond after days of wild weather, but once again, no new ducks. The trees creak and clack in the brittle wind, which strips me down near to hypothermia. The Gap is a bit of a wind tunnel, at times our own little piece of the Arctic. Today is one of those mornings.
A slight mystery near the pond—I swear I hear a kingfisher there, but I’m interrupted by a train, and by the time I’m in sight, nothing is about. Later, I hear one along the river. It almost sounded like the kingfisher was imitating a robin, a bit of hallucination on my part. These windy days do that—I think I hear snatches of song from far away, a bit of swan or killdeer, a fragment of goose. Close at hand, sound bubbles of robin bob around, even when robins are nowhere close.
On the way back, a personage a friend of mine in Austin terms the “long man” appears. Here in Appalachia he’s a rare sight—in the hotspot, it has to be just the time of year the northward-moving sun peeks above the quarry and aligns with the tracks.
The wind is stronger now, and at the crossing, the last birds of dawn dive down. A small group of Turkey Vultures circles up briefly and disappears down Sapsucker Ridge, as two Black Vultures zoom in low, heading east.
Spring First
Sorry, equinoctians: we’ll start spring on the 1st of March, lion or lamb. Friday is more like the latter, but very cold, dipping just below 20. I’ve decided to sit the powerline this morning and still make it back by work at 8, but I need to wear my Baffins against the bitter cold (I detest getting cold feet at sits). This makes for a sweat-inducing slog up through the Laurel Ridge trails to the overlook; no chair today, just pace-stomping by 5:53 AM, and none too soon. At three minutes ‘til, a Wild Turkey gobbles loudly from the tangles to the north, and in the crystal light, a Northern Cardinal calls just before the hour, followed by distant Canada Geese.
Ten minutes later, it begins in earnest, though most of the noise here wafts up from below, as there’s not much nearby here up on top. White-throated Sparrow first, then more cardinals, then a Song Sparrow, and booming Mourning Doves, their mating call travelling from who knows how far?
At 6:13, the chuckling I’ve been waiting for: American Woodcock, down in the field at the edge of the slope. In a few days, they’ll be up in First Field. Definitely a great way to start off the spring!
A Northern Mockingbird is next, a quick series of loud chuck! calls, then silence. By 6:20, a Common Raven is croaking far away, then a lingering Hermit Thrush clucks softly from a few yards away. Carolina Wren, American Crow, Tufted Titmouse: 14 species in total by 6:30 AM, making me feel like the year is finally getting somewhere. Such a shame we have to set our clocks back in a few days, and I lose the opportunity to do this on work days for another month.
Space Invaders
The dawn chorus continues from below as the first flyovers chime. American Goldfinch, House Finch, rushing to feeders. This is an excellent spot to hear them, as the breeze seems to push them low down, almost hugging the mountaintop, regardless whether they’re heading to somewhere on top or going from valley to valley. A bit later, I hear a Pine Siskin, perhaps on its way to Eric’s feeder, where he has picked up the call in recent days.
Other flybys are whispery robins, raucous Blue Jays (when are they not?), and, somewhere, Eastern Bluebirds. Then the icterids, though few in number today.
The sun strikes hard at 6:50, and with it, the local winter Black-capped Chickadee clan pops up in the scrub oaks, on the move, feeding, calling, and scolding (me).
The dawn’s not done yet, though, as Sinking Valley is still in shadow. An Eastern Towhee reeps loudly and repeatedly, and then the woodpecker percussion orchestra starts. The four common species rattle and drum from the cardinal points, and the Red-bellied calls, and even a Yellow-bellied Sapsucker taps its irregular notes.
By 7, 27 species. Down in First Field, a classic sound of spring rings out: the weird, rising notes of a Field Sparrow, like the sound effects of an old video game. At least one is back on territory, and now they won’t shut up until early fall. I’m not sure I can say that this species is “back” as they never seem to have left. I even coaxed one to sing not long ago. But this is different: dry, clear, cold but brilliant sun: singing of its own accord from some bush somewhere, over and over and over.
Another Pine Siskin goes over, and then a third. I wonder if this species is on the move again, going north, or whether these are just local winter residents returning to feeders somewhere. They were here in numbers last fall before disappearing completely by not long after the New Year, so I had assumed they swept through and continued south.
The surprises aren’t over yet. In town, right on Pennsylvania Avenue, a diminutive Fish Crow is flying about. This species withdraws east and south to the bigger rivers in the winter, and today is the earliest I’ve ever been able to detect it here.
The Passing of the Killdeer
Friday’s railroad jaunt is uneventful in 40-degree spitting rain, but at the end of the day it finally clears out, and dusk is a deafening chorus in town. I finally hear a Killdeer for real—not a wind specter and not a starling—far off, probably migrating high up. At exactly the same moment, Eric’s microphone hears one going over the mountain. Migrants, they’ll continue through the night, and beyond.
Sunday, finally, is a full hike. No Baffins today, but rather the lightest and springiest Hokas I can muster in the musty spring warmth. I’m out a bit late after dropping Paola at the hospital, and following an uneventful pond, I head straight up from the gate to the crest of Laurel Ridge. My idea is to listen carefully all along the crest as far as the powerline, even if it’s too late for the dawn chorus.
Field Sparrows are on territories strung out at the edge of the valley, as they are in our field. EBird is surprised by the high number, but not as surprised as it is by what turns out to be an all-time high count of Carolina Wrens (16). Every few hundred feet, I hear another, so that’s about one mile of them—courtship in full swing!
Not long after reaching the ridgetop, I hear Killdeer, and for once, as I look up at exactly the right place, I see three together, wings long and pointed, flying steadily north, calling incessantly. Singles and pairs go by throughout the morning and I eventually tally an all-time hotspot high of 11.
Drumming Log
At a certain point on the ridge where the trail weaves along between our property and a valley neighbor’s, a bird flushes low from blueberry shrubs and zooms down to the left into steep tangles. As I’m wondering whether it could have been a grouse, a second bird, definitely a Ruffed Grouse, flushes from the same spot, following the ridge away from me and then veering into the laurel thickets on our side.
Quite a surprise, and what a thrill it would be to have nesting grouse once again! I’m intrigued by the fact that the birds were apparently courting (I thought I heard drumming earlier, when I was quite a ways away) in such an open spot. The log sits in the middle of a deadening, with little but standing, moth-killed oak in all directions. Maybe sound travels better here?
At the powerline, I glimpse an American Kestrel out in the valley, hunting. I swing all the way to the end of the Far Field to see if I can catch a glimpse of the waterfowl-rich pond off the Tipton/Grazierville exit, and much to my amazement, from the highest point on the property, thanks to recent logging by a neighbor, part of a pond is actually visible. Nothing is in it today, but as I’m peering, a sound very much akin to the flight call of an Evening Grosbeak alerts me to a large-ish, finch-like bird rocketing overhead, going east. Could it have been? I can’t exclude other species, so it stays off the 2024 list, for now.
Back at First Field, and on along Bird Count Trail, the bushes are popping with sparrows, including more than a few migrant Fox Sparrows, not at all shy.
February Round-Up & March Outlook
Six new species for the hotspot in February were Rusty Blackbird, Green-winged Teal, Northern Pintail, Rough-legged Hawk, Horned Lark, and Swamp Sparrow.
Missed this year so far have been Red-shouldered Hawk, Northern Saw-whet Owl, Long-tailed Duck, Herring Gull, and Gadwall, but all these should be on their way. Once again, however, it has been a wash for most winter specialties: no Long-eared Owl, American Goshawk, Northern Shrike, Common Redpoll, White-winged Crossbill, Evening Grosbeak.
The potential milestone for March is the first 100 species of the year. Though I’m ahead of last year, it will still be a tough challenge, particularly since my NFC mic has apparently failed and I have little time or cash to get another. I may get a PUC instead. Last year, Plummer’s Hollow recorded its 100th species on April 8th, a dawn Eastern Whip-Poor-Will, one of the first in the state. This year, we’re already about 10 species ahead of last year, so I think we have a fair chance, particularly if the last week of March is warm.
In the interim, there actually aren’t too many entirely new species to hope for, as such early spring arrivals as Eastern Phoebe and Eastern Towhee have already been tallied. One that will appear overhead soon is the Eastern Meadowlark, and others include Tree Swallows and Chipping Sparrows. But the real challenge, as always, is going to be waterfowl. This year, I’m going to try every trick in the book to spy on neighboring bodies of water from within the hotspot: I’ve got three new ponds lined up as well as “the” pond, and some extra stretches of river. Here’s hoping!