Saturday: 39 degrees and cloudy, sodden and with more rain to come. I decide to prowl the balcony rather than head to the woods, and a good thing, too.
A Song Sparrow is singing at 6:17 AM as a death metal car throbs by. By 6:33, as American Robins kick it up a notch, the sparrow sings constantly. A Common Raven, an Eastern Phoebe, once each, then nothing until the Carolina Wren at 6:54, and some Northern Cardinals. Last to arrive: an American Crow at seven, hurrying out of the way of the storm arriving from the east.
7:14. Spitting rain, and the robins, phoebe, and sparrows struggle to go on.
7:26. Darker yet and pitching rain, with the noise shutting out the calls. Four Common Grackles drift over through the storm, eastward.
7:33. European Starlings fly about in the downpour, and a Song Sparrow sings on through the thick of it. This is getting interesting. Which of the measly 12 species on the board today will remain active through the gale?
Answer: Common Grackles (25 fly right through the teeth of it). American Robins, flying about, singing. Northern Cardinal: singing. Common Raven: honking and croaking from some safe spot under the interstate.
8:02 AM. Starlings manage to perch on the sycamore as it violently whips back and forth, with sheets of cold rain buffeting the town. The robins and cardinals keep right on singing. With the winds at their fiercest, out pop several dozen starlings, five grackles, and even a pair of Rock Pigeons in a confused tangle from behind the building, flying east into the storm, then blown back around toward town. The starlings continue to try to land in the tallest sycamore, through sheets of rain.
Oxygen
Sunday dawns cool (41) and clear, with a stiff breeze from the west. Sunrise is now at 7:07 AM. Birds this dawn are overwhelming, perhaps eager to get out and about after days of rain and gloom. Earliest are American Robins and Song Sparrows, then the ‘tseeps’ of a Chipping Sparrow as choking perfume rises from the laundromat. Robins yell and fight around the parking lot and trees: they’ve been up for hours. Snatches of song that sound like bluebirds, vireos, and juncos, but are probably all distorted robins, drift in from about town on this exceptionally quiet day. With barely any light yet, a Canada Goose heads out of the Gap along the crest of Bald Eagle Mountain, northeastward.
Tiny scattered clouds rush east into the orange dawn as a Black Vulture and four Turkey Vultures circle out from their roost and cross to the mountain. At 6:48 AM, this is uncharacteristically early for them, and a very good sign of what could become a productive day, after a week of sub-par dawn performances. Within minutes, more vultures arrive, and ravens begin to grab the winds over Bald Eagle Mountain as well. Up pops a Red-tailed Hawk, gaining altitude, then banking south toward Brush Mountain and Plummer’s Hollow, where it disappears.
More almost-sounds: Long-tailed Duck (they do fly at this time, but who knows?), Blue-headed Vireo (not quite, and they may or may not be back yet), then a definite nearby Eastern Bluebird, the first from my balcony this year. Eighteen species by 7 AM, and no sign of stopping. By a few minutes after, so many birds are in the sky at once that I can no longer keep track of them. In the far distance beyond the Gap, a huge cloud of Common Grackles issues from behind Brush Mountain somewhere, heading north. I switch from bins to camera but they are invisible to the naked eye and I lose them. Later, hundreds more go by.
A Mourning Dove lands on the wire, nicely silhouetted, and as I snap a shot I nearly miss an American Kestrel far behind it, heading over Bald Eagle Mountain.
Activity begins to ebb by 7:20, but it’s not over yet. Gaggles of Canada Geese are fighting the west wind into town, ragged wing missing flight feathers, looking for somewhere to park. Rock Pigeons are finally up, #25 today. At 7:24, a Belted Kingfisher explodes upward from the confluence with a deafening rattle, and catapults overhead across town. Turkey Vultures, American Robins, and Common Grackles are all over the eastern horizon. A lone Rusty Blackbird flies west directly over my head and low, calling.
On it goes. A Blue Jay calls at 7:44, and then flies to a nearby tree and is joined briefly by another. I’ve heard this species occasionally from my balcony in 2023, but it’s the first time since the fall they’ve showed themselves this close.
Over the ridge, American Crows are attacking a Common Raven. I wrap up the balcony a bit after eight, with a banner 33 species. And the day is just getting started. I’ll go over to the pond and then get back to work on indoor tasks, I think to myself.
Decisions, Decisions
At 8:07, the intense blue sky is now empty. Anyone heading out at this time might assume that there were no birds about. Just the Mallard pair at the pond, but some vague sounds by the river give way to the glorious song of a Winter Wren. This is new: the winter ones are long gone, and this is a preferred migrant stopover spot. Hmm…
The first train in hours goes by. Should I go back to my office, or check out the woods? Maybe a vireo can be found.
I opt for the woods. Just a quick look up the Hollow and then back to the car.
Up Sapsucker Trail
The stream is full, so it’s useless trying to hear any vireos over the water. I need to get up into the sunlight, up into the side ravines on Sapsucker Ridge. At the big pulloff, I hop onto a trace I call Sapsucker Trail. This pays off: now paralleling the hollow road but a few hundred feet up, I come across the first flock of the day: a pair of Brown Creepers, some Golden-crowned Kinglets working the red maples, Black-capped Chickadees (as always—they seem to join every flock), White-breasted Nuthatches, and an assortment of woodpeckers. A Yellow-bellied Sapsucker is not shy, calling repeatedly as it flies around nearby trees. This trail will be the epicenter for the species over the next weeks. I pish briefly, and a Barred Owl pops up from below, lands on a nearby branch, surveys me, and heads off. Another sign that this is going to be a major migration day: an Eastern Phoebe calling and singing nearby. When phoebes are in the deep woods, this is a sign that an early spring migrant wave is underway.
Peak Junco
There’s no turning back now (I’ll do that office work later.) I climb Dogwood Knoll to get to a higher route, Greenbriar Trail, which skirts the thickest tangles stuck to the highest part of Sapsucker Ridge, facing east. From there, I take Bird Count Trail and then bushwhack over to First Field. This transect contains the richest avifauna in the hotspot.
As I approach the first main thicket area, delicate twittering and trilling of Dark-eyed Juncos, courting and staging for the trip north, becomes deafening (170 for the day). This first flock has a few White-throated and Song sparrows, Eastern Towhees, and Northern Cardinals mixed in. Above, what may be the same Red-tailed Hawk from earlier circles.
Fox Sparrows are next: this is their peak as well, and they are jumping about the tangles and singing from all directions. I count 28 for the day, but there are doubtless many more.
As the sounds of the first junco flock recede, I can hear the next one up ahead. A Winter Wren (3 for the day) runs along a nearby log. Otherwise it’s the same species, with a notable lack of white-throats this year. A grayish shape explodes from my right somewhere: a Great-horned Owl heading the direction I’m going, prompting frenetic activity from the American Crows. I don’t see it again, but the Red-tailed Hawk has landed on a snag and is overseeing the mayhem.
Up ahead, at field’s edge, it’s not juncos this time but Song Sparrows: this is also their peak, it seems, and I estimate 41 around field edges and down by the houses.
I circle the field and head back down the road. Another mixed kinglet/chickadee/creeper flock puts the Brown Creeper total at six, still three off the record of nine, set on April 4, 2021.
For the morning, I record 51 species without finding a single new bird for 2023. Nevertheless, it is the first time I’ve ever been able to detect 50 or more species in the hotspot in March. Smack-dab in the middle of the first major diurnal migrant wave, we’re still a week away from the next set of new species (Blue-headed Vireo, Louisiana Waterthrush, Blue-gray Gnatcatcher, Ruby-crowned Kinglet, and so forth).
Once again, the last nights were a complete disappointment. Returning from picking up the recordings and showing some visitors our wetlands, the day again proves its worth: the first Coltsfoot along the road, typically our first woods wildflower of note and an important milestone for the Spring Arrivals list over the year. It will be followed by a parade of amazing wildflowers in the Hollow over the next two months (many native), which you are welcome to walk up and take a look at if you are in the area and have time.
The Late Crowd
Tonight’s checklist happens after chores are done. It’s 7:30 by the time my balcony sit commences, so it’s a bit like being at a party until the last guests leave. Still clear and now warm, birds are predictably leaving their returns-to-roost until the last minute. Fourteen species are still about—the last Turkey Vultures, the last calls of phoebes, cardinals, and song sparrows, and after 7:40, Mourning Doves, then Mallards and Wood Ducks dropping down to the river right by the Pennsylvania Avenue bridge. A drake Mallard quacks lustily as it dives right over my head.
But the robins go on, kicking up their activity. They’re the party-goers who never leave, though I’m eager to close out the checklist and crash. Now they’re singing, and fighting, chasing each other right past my face, and all about the parking lots. It’s no use: I’m done at eight, but on they go. As I write this not long after 4 AM on Monday, they’re already up and at it again.