A Night To Howl

Seven Degrees. Wife’s out of town. No wind or snow. The Full Wolf Moon. A perfect night to howl!
Bundled in enough clothing to open a small outlet store, I headed south on a trail in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park in hopes of adding a few night birds to my “100-species-in-January” bird list. Cabin fever doesn’t have a chance if you’re a birder. Every waking moment is spent planning one wacky thing after another. Fellow birders reported having passed the damn-near-impossible goal of 100 early last week. I checked my numbers and found that I was about 60 short of the goal. It was January 30. I was in trouble.
The amazing reflection of the sun’s light, bouncing off Luna’s face only lured me deeper into the woods. How can the light be so bright when the sun is 91 million miles away, give or take a million? Then add on the 250,000 or so miles to reflect the light back to Earth. Some questions are best answered with, hmmmmm.
I wondered if I’d be able to hear the familiar singing of Great-horned Owls through my almost-too-tight hat and face mask. The crunch of boots on day-old snow, mixed with heavy breathing, had the potential to cancel any owl calls. The only thing to do was stop moving—from time to time. I walked and waited, glimpsing the moon through the barren branches.
I’m still unsure if the shivers literally running up my back, were caused by the cold or the unannounced, high-pitched song of the coyotes. My hair (what there is of it) tingled like the time I was caught in an electrical storm high in the mountains. I was afraid to move, yet the adrenaline was screaming at me to run—fast. I comforted my pounding heart with the knowledge that there have only be two known instances of coyotes killing humans, whereas every year domestic dogs kill 86 people. Comforting thoughts always help in times of panic. I also knew that three is a lucky number in Japan. You know, third time’s the charm … Does that apply to animal attacks?
It sounded as if an entire pack of wild beasts was standing next to me. I tried to discern individual voices so I could scratch the number in the snow—just in case. Bravado, machismo and foolishness kicked in. I thought about joining in on the chorus, then remembered I despise karaoke. I really wanted to see them. I turned and looked. In fact, my head was spinning like some character in an exorcist movie. The shuffling of my feet and rustling of my clothing must have alerted them. Choir practice was over as abruptly as it started.
Stillness pounded in my ears and in my head so loud I wanted to use my mittened hands to hold back the non-noise.
All that moonlight does make you think crazy thoughts. I imagined how easy it would be to drive with no headlights on a night like this. Maybe even drive with my eyes closed! It’s the siren seductiveness of the moon that is most disturbing. In a way, being seduced is what leads to the crazy behavior, I suppose. Why else would I be standing in the woods in seven-degree weather? Luna just wants to lure us into a deep kiss, then be gone in the morning. She wants to give us the comfort of a cool pillow. Momentary pleasure—it’s still pleasure. She makes promises she never intends to keep. She owes you nothing. And yet, and yet, we always come back. One more look. One more kiss. Just let me sleep and be on your way. Don’t say a thing. Pretend you don’t know me. Pretend you don’t owe me. Just go.
And she’s gone.

New Feeder Bird

Red-shouldered Hawk

Now that the snow has dwindled to puddles around the yard, and mountains only slightly shorter than Everest in the parking lots, feeder activity has slowed proportionally. The usual suspects coming and going.
During my third cup of coffee this morning I was working on the mental exercise of what happens to the white color of snow when it melts. Certainly a mystery. I must have blinked, because when I looked up, there sat a gorgeous Red-shouldered Hawk. This was the first of his kind I’ve seen at our feeder.
For a fraction of second—that spanned eons—we locked eyes. I’m sure we both had the same thought: So, what happens next today?


Red-shouldered Hawk

Birds In Winter

Long-eared Owl

There’s been a lot of talk in these parts this winter about a lack of raptors. Based on reports to the Ohio Ornithological Society (www.ohiobirds.org) listserv, that appears to be the case. This somewhat dire news did not deter Susan and I, along with our birding buddies Karin Tanquist and Pat Coy, as we headed out for our annual winter birding expedition to Killdeer Plains in west-central Ohio.
Killdeer Plains Wildlife Management Area is one of the more premiere spots in the state for finding overwintering raptors. In addition, the menu concocted for the trip is always outstanding. This year’s main dish—a new quiche recipe—as well as the blueberry pie dessert, were amazing. (This is beginning to sound like some of my fishing-trip stories during which I catch no fish yet have to write about something.)
Monday was a perfect day for birding: Temperature hanging at a bone-chilling 31 degrees, freezing fog, drizzle and visibility about two miles. The birding started slow, then tapered off. We hit the hot spots, where in the past we’ve seen some special Ohio winter birds, only to discover few or none of the cold-weather arrivals. Horned Larks were poorly represented and Snow Buntings and longspurs, nonexistent.
The sighting of a beautifully colored male Northern Harrier raised our hopes as the bird drifted over a high-grass field. A single Red-headed Woodpecker was lure enough to launch us out of the car. Furiously we dug for spotting scopes, which we knew were somewhere in the trunk beneath a pile of coats, boots and picnic baskets. We watched a pair of woodpeckers do their thing, seemingly oblivious to us. The fog and drizzle acted like a blanket over the usual outside noises. Sounds of woodpeckers’ hammering was muffled, as was their grating, croaking calls.
Off we went to the owl grove, a spot known to produce as many as four species of owls—if you’re unbelievably lucky. We ran into two other birders there. One fellow had a report from earlier in the morning that three Long-eared Owls had been seen; the other birder had seen nothing all morning. That meant we had a 50-50 chance of seeing something—or nothing.
We prowled the area to no avail. Finally, Pat and Karin interrogated the young man who had the secondhand report of three owls (waterboarding was not used at any time) and discovered the location of the alleged Long-eared Owls.
Sure enough, exactly where they were supposed to be, were at least two of the trio. One bird seemed as interested in us as we were of it.
And so the day went, long periods of boredom and personal insults, followed by brief seconds of spectacular sightings. For example: Driving one of the many back roads we happened upon a flock of small brown birds, certainly not the first of the day. We had our usual “discussion” of just how many sparrows were in the bunch—like it really mattered. I glanced up and, about 50 feet from us, stood an immature Bald Eagle atop a tree stump! It was methodically eating the entrails of some hapless critter. Wow! Would he sit still for a photo? The thought was barely out of my head when he was gone.
After a fruitless search of the area for Short-eared Owls—always a target bird for us—we decided to bag it and start the two-plus hour trip home. The fact that it was so dark you couldn’t see your hand in front of you, also played into our decision. But first, we pulled off the road to finish the blueberry pie.
Adequately stoked with sugar and cold coffee, we left, reminiscing about things I’m not sure ever happened. Then, atop a barren tree, silhouetted against the graying sky, I saw the unmistakable shape of a Short-eared Owl. The car skidded to a stop as the bird fluttered in the headlights like a giant moth. It landed in the nearby corn stubble to our right. There, it stood on a mound of dirt giving us adequate, if not well-lighted looks; the perfect punctuation mark for another great day of birding.


Long-eared Owl

Sure Cure for Cabin Fever

Snow Bunting

The best way to cure a case of cabin fever is to get out of the cabin. Hardly a news flash. The 14 inches of snow on our deck railing and bushes was hindering our view of the ground-feeding birds. That had me contemplating running out to knock the snow away. And that led to mounting a full blown winter birding expedition to the Cuyahoga Valley National Park, which is essentially our back yard.
An eMail late last night from birding buddy Dwight Chasar sealed the deal. He noted a sighting of Snow Buntings here in the park, less than 10 miles from home. Typically, we load up the car with scopes, hot soup and birding friends and head for the west side of the state to see this species in winter.
Driving a few miles between our second cup of coffee and lunch would be just what we needed to cure our first cast of cabin fever for 2010.
The birds must have received the same eMail as we since they were right where Dwight said they were suppose to be. A dozen or so Snow Buntings, mixed in with an equal number of Horned Larks greeted us before we got out of the car, into the 18-dgree cold. American Tree Sparrows were also in abundance, feeding on scraps left from last season’s corn harvest.
Photo opportunities were marginal at best. There’s something about lugging all that gear around that compels a photographer to take pictures, regardless of shooting conditions. The only way to guarantee an outstanding photo is to not take the gear out of the car. Or worse, leave the gear at home and you’ll be faced with at least a half dozen images that would make the cover of National Geographic. I have a desk full of pictures never taken. When I say to Susan, “Remember that time …” her eyes glaze over and she’ll demand I load the cameras. And that’s a good thing, because just the preparation sheds that gloominess of cabin fever for me.



Horned Lark

Winter’s Day Challenge

House Finch

When Su Snyder, inveterate member of the Ohio Ornithological Society (OOS, www.ohiobirds.org), tossed down the virtual gauntlet, make that snow mitten, challenging other members of the society to a “Snow Day Birding Contest,” January 8, I yawned, then checked my jam-packed social calendar. Su was asking birders throughout the state to do what they’d probably be doing anyway on this snowy day—look out the window and report the birds you see at your feeders. Flyovers would count, too.
I, of course, first checked the list of prizes to determine if rising to this challenge would be worth the effort. I had big plans for this snow-bound day: Go through a stack of five-year-old magazines, sew on a couple buttons missing from a favorite shirt, then maybe take on the sock drawer if I felt up to it.
Whoa, there! Su was pulling out the stops for this one. She would be the final judge of all entries, awarding coveted things like OOS patches and decals. This was my kind of event!


Red-bellied Woodpecker

It was a balmy 15 degrees when I sat down with my second cuppa of the day. Snow swirled around the feeder array. Any hoped-for photography was out of the question. Our windows are spotted with the flotsam and jetsam of winter: Remains of window strikes, previously digested crabapples, and some things that defy definition. I got the camera out anyway.
I got lost in the number of species and numbers of birds. As is my want, I deviated from the path. I paid more attention to colors and (sorry for the personification) personalities of visitors on this challenging day. Safe and warm, I watched the comings and goings. More than one bird looked in at me. Was it possible that the birds were keeping a list, too?
Forget that we live virtually within the boundaries of a national park. While we get our share of birds, the species list is not long and includes only the usual suspects. I know that I don’t have a snowball’s chance of winning one of those snappy decals for my car. I have, however, had a thoroughly enjoyable day doing what I’d probably be doing without that incentive. Thanks, anyway, for the added challenge, Su.


European Starling

Once In a … While

We’ve all said it: Something special happens once in a blue moon. Well, here comes your big chance. On New Year’s Eve we’ll have a blue moon. New Year’s Eve, aka Amateur Night, is a scary night to have a full moon—and a blue moon is only going to make it worse, I’m afraid. I’m glad I’m not a cop having to deal with the whackos that will be roaming the streets.
How rare is a blue moon? My mother joked when moving from our family home after 53 years, that she moves only once in a blue moon—and there was one that night.
Folklore has us believe that a blue moon is the second full moon in a calendar month. Usually months have only one full moon. Full moons are separated by 29 days, while most months are 30 or 31 days long; so it is possible to fit two full moons in a single month. This happens every two and a half years, on average.
But what about that color thing? About 125 years ago, when the Indonesian volcano, Krakatoa exploded (scientists liken the blast to a 100-megaton nuclear bomb), the moon turned blue. Some of the ash-clouds were filled with particles about 1 micron (one millionth of a meter) wide--the right size to strongly scatter red light, while allowing other colors to pass. White moonbeams shining through the clouds emerged blue, and sometimes green.
According to the folks at NASA, the key to a blue moon is having in the air lots of particles slightly wider than the wavelength of red light (0.7 micron)—and no other sizes present. This is rare, but volcanoes sometimes spit out such clouds, as do forest fires.
So, December 31 we’ll have what Native Americans termed the Full, Long-nights Moon. It’s also called the Full Cold Moon. And since we have two full moons this month, feel free to pick either name.
Since I was still stuck on the word, “blue,” I had to do some research. According to the Farmers’ Almanac, one explanation connects it with the word "belewe" from the Old English, meaning, "to betray." Perhaps, then, the Moon was "belewe" because it betrayed the usual perception of one full Moon per month.
However, in the March 1999 issue of Sky & Telescope magazine, author Phillip Hiscock revealed one somewhat confusing origin of this term. It seems that the modern custom of naming the second full moon of a month "blue," came from an article published in the March 1946 Sky & Telescope magazine. The article was "Once in a Blue Moon," written by James Hugh Pruett. In this article, Pruett interpreted what he read in a publication known as the Maine Farmers' Almanac (no relation to this Farmers' Almanac, published in Lewiston, Maine), and declared that a second full moon in a calendar month is a "Blue Moon."
Hmmm. The end of the story is: Get out your blue party hat and put out the blue corn chips. That last full, blue moon on New Year’s Eve was 19 years ago. The next won’t be until 2028. Waahooooo!

It Was a Dark and Gloomy …

It was a dark and gloomy morning. Susan and I sat, warming our hands and brains with the day’s first coffee. We peered through the darkness to where our bird feeders had yet to emerge. We were reviewing the lengthening list of “must-dos” for the day. The holidays are baring down on us like Santa’s fully loaded sleigh gone outta control.
We went to the bottom of the list, checked the thing least important, and made that our first choice. We tossed lots of warm clothes and birding gear into the car, along with enough Starbucks coffee to cause that company’s stock to rise a couple points, along with various other nutritious snacks we knew we’d never eat. We were off to see Ohio’s first-reported Allen’s Hummingbird. It’s been hanging around down in Amish Country, Holmes County, 60 miles from here, since September. It was just “officially” identified last Friday. The Ohio Bird Records Committee will make the final decision, eventually. There were enough reliable reports about this bird to convince us that it was a must see.
As with other out-of-place birds, the usual questions arise: What’s this three and three-quarter-inch California native doing in Ohio in December? How did he get here? Where will he go—and when?
Allen Chartier, a bird bander from Michigan, captured and banded this bird last Friday. You can find a thorough discussion of its capture and banding on his blog, www.mihummingbirdguy.blogspot.com. There are also some great photos of the bird by Bruce Glick.
We were greeted at the door by Mae Miller, home owner and current provider for this bronze-tailed visitor. She told us the bird was seen twice this morning, already. The temperature had reached a balmy 18 degrees as we waited and watched the feeder, now wrapped in a heat tape to keep the water from freezing. After 15 minutes or so, bird bander/researcher Tom Bartlett appeared. Tom is a kind of bird magnet. It’s always good to have people like him around when you’re hoping for a rare bird to make an appearance.
Within five minutes or so, the diminutive guy we’d been waiting for zipped around the corner of the house. He gave the feeder a head fake, then flew to the nearby apple tree. Susan picked him out among the leafless branches while I whacked myself in the face with binoculars, cameras and uncooperative eyeglasses.
True to his nature, the green and rufous bird flew to the feeding station. He tanked up for a few minutes, then hurried off to do whatever California visitors do in Ohio in mid December.
What started as a gloomy day, when others might opt to hunker down with a good book, turned out to be just the opposite—proof that it pays to get out of bed in the morning. Now, what’s next on that list?

Let’s Do Lunch

Saturday was one of those days when I was so busy I barely had time to do anything. It was bright and sunny. I wanted to be outside playing. Instead, all of the inside things I had neglected during the week caught up with me.
Around noon I decided to take a lunch break. It seemed like a good time to stop doing whatever it was that I was suppose to be doing and watch the birds, who were also having lunch. Lots of activity happening with the usual suspects coming and going. I wanted to get some pix of the current visiting Red-breasted Nuthatch since he had a lot of color for a bird at this time of the year. Camera in place, I headed to the kitchen to see what I could scrounge up.
Walking back to my favorite spot for photographing the feeder activity, I noticed a total lack of birds at the array. Without even looking I knew the reason. D.B. Cooper (aka Cooper’s Hawk) was in the neighborhood. I glanced over at the deck railing and … Whoa! No peanut butter and jelly sandwich for this guy. House Finch seemed to be the special of the day.
Science tells us, on first arriving at a feeding station, a Cooper's may take three or four birds in quick succession. The smaller birds rapidly become wary, forcing the hawk to locate a nearby hiding place. On Sunday morning, Susan and I watched for nearly a half hour as D.B. perched in the rain, within 10 feet of the feeder. He seemed to have a confused expression, as if to ask, “Where are all the birds?”. Usually, hawks only visit a feeding station for a short period of time each day and take a bird or two. If a feeding station is especially busy or there is an exceptionally good hiding place nearby, the hawk may continue to visit for a week or two. Eventually the prey birds stay away and the hawk moves on to find another location.
Not so in our case. D.B. has become part of the landscape at our place. Our birding acquaintances have mixed emotions about hawks raiding the feeder. It does seem like dirty pool to attract songbirds, only to have them find themselves on the menu. I contrasted that thought with a recent encounter with a person who feeds birds as well as three feral cats. Talk about dirty pool. At least the hawk eats what it kills—and kills to eat.
Feral cats kill hundreds of millions of birds, according to the American Bird Conservancy, National Audubon Society and many other organizations that have studied the problem. There are more than 90 million pet cats in the U.S., the majority of which roam outside at least part of the time. In addition, millions of stray and feral cats roam our cities, suburbs and rural areas. If you have a cat, keep it indoors. Solutions to this crucial and unnecessary problem of feral cats can be found at www.abcbirds.org, and www.audubon.org.

Sharp Air, Sharp Beaks

After 11 days out of town, mooching rooms and meals from relatives, it felt good to be back on the home patch this morning. The feeders were virtually empty so Task One was to refill the array. The air was a brisk, a sharp 23 degrees as I poured seed into the hoppers and shouldered some minor abuse about my dereliction of duties from the chickadee population.
I could tell winter was in the air, or at least in the ground, as I walked around. For the first time this season the earth felt as hard as concrete. Little humps and ridges left behind by the various creatures that eat beneath our feeders did not give way under my shoes.



It’s curious to me how things, like frozen earth, which seem so daunting to humans, are taken in stride by birds that must find their eats regardless of the time, temperature or anything else thrown at them.
Earlier in the week, while in St. Louis, I watched a female Northern Flicker, the ant eater of the avian world, as she inspected what had probably been a chipmunk, vole or maybe a snake, hole. No ants around at this time of year, yet she seemed quite interested in what might be down there. With caution she slowly lowered her head, and kept an eye on the two-inch opening. Finally, when sure nothing was going to have her for breakfast, she began hammering away. She pummeled the hole’s entrance until she eventually unearthed a … what?
Whatever she found, it was tasty enough to carry off into the trees.

An Easy Way to Find a Rare Sparrow

Way back in the last century, when I used to work for a living (as compared with playing for a living as I do now), I came to St. Louis on business—and birding as was my want. St Louis was, and still is to a degree, the only place in the country where a birder can find the Eurasian Tree Sparrow.
A lot of mysteries surround the diminutive bird, the greatest for me is why the bird does not expand beyond its current range. Twenty years ago there was an article in the American Birding Association newsletter about the sparrow and how to locate it within a well-defined neighborhood in St. Louis. As luck would have it I was going to St. Louis that very week so the newsletter was on top of my business papers.
I recall that wintery day when I first saw the bird. Most of the streets in what I now know as the Dog Town area are one way. Piles of snow hampered travel. I was not to be denied. I eventually parked and walked the neighborhood until I finally spotted a flock of sparrows on a backyard feeder. As I was studying the bird, a resident of the house came out and I thought I’d have some explaining to do.
Turns out the man was quite friendly. He asked me where I was from, then looked up “Medina, Ohio” in a large notebook he was carrying. No one from Medina in his book. I was a “lifer” for him! He’d been ticking off birders for years, he said.
We talked about the birds for a while, then I had to go. He seemed equally as happy that I had seen the Eurasian Tree Sparrow.
How the bird got to St Louis is not a mystery. In the 19th century, south St. Louis was the home of many European immigrants who wanted to see familiar birds from their homeland. So, on April 25, 1870, 12 Eurasian Tree Sparrows were released in Lafayette Park in south St. Louis. Numbers of other European birds were also released (European Goldfinches, Eurasian Bullfinches, Chaffinches, Greenfinches, and Linnets), but only the Eurasian Tree Sparrow successfully established a breeding population.
The birds have expanded their territory, however, not as fast or as far as one might expect of non-native bird. Since my wife hails from St. Louis and many of her relatives still live here, our trips to the area always include a search for the sparrow. It’s not a physically remarkable bird, only rare—which makes it remarkable, I guess. In that silent language birders often adopt, Susan, while talking on the phone, got my attention by clicking her fingers. I looked up from the book I was reading and she was pointing to the bushes in her mother’s suburban backyard. There sat a Eurasian Tree Sparrow! The search for the bird this year was the easiest ever.

You Can Do a Lot With Spit

If you’re a paper wasp, home is where you hang it.
A great reason for getting into the woods at this time of the year is the opportunity to see the variety of nests animals build, then abandon, only to do it all again next year.
Highly visible are the nests left behind, sort of, by paper wasps. Paper wasps and hornets are social creatures. They live in colonies of workers, queens and males.
Only the inseminated queens overwinter, thus my hesitation to say the nests are abandoned. Queens might also winter over in any protected place; structures such as hollow logs, stumps, under bark and leaf litter.
The first warm days of late April or early May bring the queens to the surface. They select a nest site and build a small paper nest in which eggs are laid. One egg is laid in each cell. As she adds more cells around the edge, eggs are deposited.
Larvae in the center are older with the younger larvae further out. Cells at the rim of the nest contain eggs. After eggs hatch, the queen feeds the larvae. When larvae are ready to pupate, cells are covered with silk, forming little domes over the individual openings. Larvae pupate, emerging later as small, infertile females called "workers." This happens by mid-June. The first adult workers emerge and assume the tasks of nest expansion, foraging for food, caring for the queen and larvae and defending the colony.
The initial nest of the paper wasp is the work of a single female. It has a single layer or "tier" of cells and is not enclosed by envelopes. In hornets, the nests usually consist of a number of stories or "tiers," one below the other and completely enclosed by spherical walls. Each cell may be used for two or three successive batches of brood.
There are 22 species of paper wasps in North America and approximately 700 species world-wide. Most are found in the tropics of the western hemisphere.
The nests of most species are suspended from a single, central stalk and have the shape of an upside-down umbrella. Plant and wood fibers are collected by the wasps, mixed with saliva, and chewed into a papier-mâché-like material that is formed into the thin cells of the nest.
The next time you’re whining about a home repair job, imagine trying to complete it—even make the material you need—using only your mouth.

How to Spend Time You Don’t Have

Red-bellied Woodpecker

In spite of more tasks than we could ever complete on our “Get-Ready-for-Thanksgiving” list, Susan and I could not stay focused. Yet another gorgeous day landed here in Northeast Ohio. These are truly bonus days and must not be wasted inside, doing absolutely necessary things.
The day started out gloomy and fog enshrouded. It promised to be a perfect day to stay inside. Then it happened. The sun popped out about 2 p.m. and we were finished working inside.
Off we went to a favorite spot in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park, not shown on the maps. We call it the Ridge Walk. At this time of the year, when trees have dropped their leaves to show their true nature, you can see for miles to the southwest over the park.
Birding was slow, except for the woodpeckers. This species was not loafing on this late fall day. Most interesting were the Red-bellied Woodpeckers. We watched one guy in particular as he stashed acorns into cracks and crevasses of the shagbark hickory trees.
Red-bellied Woodpecker is a species we see year round. They are regulars at the suet cakes of our feeder array. When one is feeding it has no challengers. One look at that chisel-like beak and other birds find something else to do. The birds probe more than hammer like other woodpeckers, preferring to quietly get at those insects. Red-bellieds are omnivorous. Whatever’s on the menu seems to fit their needs. Their preference for insects and insect larvae provide a valuable natural control for insect pests.
As its name implies, there is a red patch edged with a yellowish wash on the belly of both the male and the female. Good luck seeing it.
And, from the Too-Much-Information Department comes this: A Red-bellied Woodpecker can stick out its tongue nearly two inches past the end of its beak. The tip is barbed and the bird’s spit is sticky, making it easier to snatch prey from deep crevices. Males have longer, wider-tipped tongues than females.

Photo Op

Cooper's Hawk

This was one of those mornings when a lot of people might be tempted to leave the camera in the bag and slip into the safety of the Sunday newspaper. I couldn’t tell if the fog was lifting or settling in for the duration as I stepped outside in search of my newspaper, normally lodged against the garage door.
As I was wondering why the fog made it seem colder than the advertised 47 degrees, my resident Cooper’s Hawk landed in the recently pruned crab apple tree. He seemed to be inspecting the pruning job, which gave him clearer access to our feeder array only eight feet away.
When he saw me standing there he made a quick assessment and decided to look for smaller, or more colorful eats for breakfast.
So starts another day for all creatures, great and small.

Is it Getting Hot in Here …

Last night’s spring-like temperatures in mid-November seemed appropriate for a discussion of climate change—the term now more preferred than global warming. It’s still about global warming no matter what you term it.
At a special meeting of concerned citizens, sponsored by AudubonOhio (www.audubonohio.org) and the Cleveland Museum of Natural History (www.cmnh.org), Greg Butcher, director of bird conservation, National Audubon Society (www.audubon.org), presented his research on the shifting ranges of birds, gleaned from more than 40 years of Audubon Christmas Bird Count data. The tired cliché of birds being the canary in the coal mine was never more appropriate.
The end of the story (Or, is it just the beginning?) is that it’s getting warmer and of the 305 bird species Butcher reviewed, 58 percent show their center of abundance in winter is moving north—and many are moving westward as well.
“On average,” said Butcher, “the birds have moved north about 40 miles. More than 60 species have moved further than 100 miles north in winter and the leader appears to be the Purple Finch, whose center of abundance is now more than 400 miles further north of where it was 40 years ago.”
He added that northward movement was detected among species of every type, including more than 70 percent of highly adaptable forest and feeder birds.
Grassland species seem to be an exception. Only 38 percent mirror the northward trend. That’s far from being good news for species like Eastern Meadowlark and Henslow's Sparrow. This non-movement reflects the grim reality of severely depleted grassland habitat. It also suggests that these species now face a double threat from the combined stresses of habitat loss and climate adaptation.
The fact that feeder birds are wintering further north is an example of the complication in doing this kind of research. Feeder birds are finding a lot more food available as millions of people now make more food available than in the past. Couple this with the fact that nights are now warmer in winter, thus requiring less food for them to survive, and you can see how populations have increased and moved northward. Then, to add to the woes of neotropical migrants returning in spring, territories and food supplies are already controlled by birds that were able to survive the winter.
Butcher’s report was, as is all good science, heavily laden with numbers and warm, dry facts. If you want to see the entire report, you can read it, and much more information on this critical subject, at www.birdsandclimatechange.audubon.org. It’s a compelling argument that our world is getting warmer, and not necessarily better. Will we, and the birds, survive? Probably. When you factor in other things impacting the survival of birds—like loss and degradation of habitat—the picture for many bird species is bleak.
So, what can we do? Butcher, and Marnie Urso, grassroots coordinator for AudubonOhio, had a list of community action initiatives, such as letters to write, or phone calls to make to legislators on the state and national level. In my opinion, depending on legislative action to resolve this problem is like talking to that stump over there. I agree, policy action is probably the only thing that will wake some people and get them to do something—anything.
I think a more powerful, immediate message, or action, is to use less of things causing the problem. If your head hurts from beating it against the wall, moving the wall is not the best option.
Ohio ranks second as an emitter of greenhouse gases because of our reliance on outdated, inefficient coal-fired electric generation. Finding ways to reduce our personal use of electricity, driving more fuel-efficient cars and creating reliable, affordable public transportation will have a more immediate impact on global warming than all the hot air generated by politicians and their running-dog lackey lobbyists. Then, maybe, the politicians can turn off the lights and go home early, thus using even less electricity.

Call It What You Will

Brown Creeper


I use to think it was Aldo Leopold who said words to the effect that the first step to understanding something was to call it by its proper name. Well, I can’t find the quote (maybe it was the voices in my head) so I’ll just say, ‘some wise person once said … .’ I was thinking about that quote this past weekend as Susan and I were birding with some friends. We were, ostensibly, looking for waterfowl, however, the birds have yet to start their major migration. Consequently, as birders will do, we looked at anything that moved.
Some birds’ names are right on target, while others make you scratch your head in wonder. Take the Ring-necked Duck we were seeking, for example. It has a beautiful white ring on its bill and no discernable marking on its neck; the Red-tailed Hawk’s tail is not always red; and only if you’re lucky do you see the red belly of the Red-bellied Woodpecker.
There can be no doubt, however, about the Blue-footed Booby, the Eastern Bluebird, or, our favorite from this weekend, the Brown Creeper. Most birds carry names that are descriptive of some color it has—or allegedly has. The creeper, creeps. It slowly (unless you’re trying to photograph it) works its way up the trunk of a tree, probing for insects or eggs. It’s coloration blends with the bark of a tree so well that when it stops moving your odds of seeing it are greatly reduced.
No matter what you call them, birds attract us for what they are and do. A chevron of Canada Geese flies over and we always look up. A Brown Thrasher thrashes and we always look down. And will we understand them better because of their names? Probably not. A name is a key to identification, not understanding.


Eastern Bluebird

A Morning in the Life …

Red-shouldered Hawk


In a couple months I’ll think of mornings with temperatures in the low thirties as warm and comfy. For the time being, I was questioning my clothing choices as I headed south on the trail in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park. If I stayed in the sun, nearly impossible, it was comfortable. Otherwise, I’d describe it as being on the brisk side.
I heard a Red-shouldered Hawk calling from far away. That distinctive, “kee-ah, kee-ah, kee-ah,” probably travels for miles on cool fall mornings. Following the sound, I located the bird, perched high, enjoying the warmth of early morning sun. Or, at least that’s how I interpreted the scene. He was puffed up like the Pillsbury Doughboy. I wondered how, from so high up, he could possibly spot his breakfast running in the leaf litter below.
Turns out that spotting a meal is easy as pie for these guys. Studies have shown they can spot a mouse a half mile away. His eyesight is two or three times better than we humans. If we had eyes like a hawk we could read a newspaper a football field away—or so goes the myth. I watched as the hawk called and looked around. Did he call so much for the reason I was told an owl hoots? Some theorize the owl hoots in order to scare prey out of hiding.
Occasionally he glanced down at me. I’m sure he was thinking, “If that human had these cool brow ridges over his eyes like me, he wouldn’t have to fuss with that damn silly baseball cap to keep the sun out of his eyes.”
He finally tired of me, and the fact that I was probably standing in his breakfast cereal bowl, and took off.
I took a couple shortcuts heading for home and popped up on the bike trail and back toward what passes for civilization in these parts. I glanced up at the utility towers and saw a Red-tailed Hawk sunning himself. He seemed content to just look around this morning. These birds of the buteo species are not built for speed, so it’s a good thing they have great eyesight. And probably their reason for sitting in the open so often.
It didn’t take long before crows in the neighborhood also saw the hawk. In a obvious case of racial profiling, the crows began harassing the hawk for no reason other than he was in their neighborhood. With reluctance the hawk dropped from his perch to get some wind beneath his wings and made a graceful glide, about 50 yards away, to the safety of a stand of oak trees.
Hawks make it looks so easy, although I’m not so sure about the part where you have to catch all your meals with your mouth …


Red-tailed Hawk

Well, That Depends …

Pileated Woodpecker

I was out on the Bike/Hike Trail early this morning to check on “my” mockingbirds. I’ve been monitoring the activity of a few Northern Mockingbirds for about a year now. The species is still an uncommon visitor to this corner of Summit County. I’d not been out to check on the birds for nearly a week so I was curious to see if they were still hanging around.
Six Eastern Bluebirds fluttered into the trees nearby as I was trying to make some pictures of a uncooperative Dark-eyed Junco. I turned my attention to them. About that time, two women walking their dogs—at least I think they were dogs—stopped to see what I was looking at.
“Hi. You a photographer,” asked one whose dog was about the size of a gerbil.
Someday I’ll just simply answer ‘yes’ to that question, but not today. “No. This camera’s just for show,” I had to say.
“There’s nothing to take pictures of,” said the other woman, whose dog looked like a cat I used to own. “I mean, like all the color is gone even if the leaves were on the trees. Which they aren’t, by the way.”
I had just been thinking how great it was to have the leaves off the trees so we can better see the colorful woodpeckers.
Trying to redeem my karma, which I’m sure had dropped a few points, I sought to educate. I pointed out the woodpeckers, of which three species were visible without binoculars. A Pileated Woodpecker passed overhead, so close I could hear its wings beat. I pointed out four other species of birds, colorful berries and the grasses which had turned a thousand shades of gold.
They were not convinced. The lady with the gerbil on a leash said, “Well, I guess it’s all how you look at it.”
With which I had to agree. The mockingbird calling in the distance was my cue to leave.


Northern Mockingbird

Ten Reasons For Not Catching Fish

First, I’d like to thank all of you folks who went to the office this morning on this drop-dead gorgeous day. It’s because of you, and Social Security, that guys like me can blow an entire day on the stream, not catch a fish, and still be happy.
The fly fisher has 1,000 things he can do wrong and not catch a fish. The fish, on the other end of this story, has only to commit a single error. Here are 10 reasons why the fish won—this time:
1. The sun was too bright.
2. The water was too clear.
3. It was too early in the day.
4. It was too late in the day.
5. Three Belted Kingfishers worked the stream, distracting me.
6. A herd of 11 deer crossed upstream and spooked the fish.

7. My newly built steelhead rod was too gorgeous and distracting.
8. The moon was on the wane.
9. Barometric pressure was too low.
10. Barometric pressure was too high.
11. My fishing guru, Tom, was, allegedly, preparing for a trip to North Carolina.
Any fisher who tells you it’s not always about catching fish is, at least in this instance, telling the truth.

A Close Encounter

In retrospect, had he been so inclined, he could have had his way with me. And, in retrospect, had I any common sense, or sense of fear, I should have done something, anything, other than what I did. I suppose my highly evolved human brain was telling me I had encountered white-tailed deer during rutting season in the past and nothing negative had happened. So why panic?
I was about two and half miles into my hike and stopped to make some pictures of the little brown birds making a fuss in the brush. It was a great group; White-throated Sparrows, Song Sparrows, a couple Dark-eyed Juncos and a Field Sparrow or two.
I’d like to think I sensed, rather than heard the deer. I looked to my right and there he stood. He was within 10 feet of me. I quickly did the math: If I zoom back to 150mm, minimum focus is about 10 feet. Too close, and when I raise the camera he’ll … What will he do? Would a $3,000 Nikon club be a match for those six antler points or the sharp hooves? My point-and-shoot camera was in my jacket pocket, however, the battery had pooped out earlier.
Okay. I calmly assessed the situation and determined that, basically, I was dead meat.
He just stood there, looking at me. No huffing and puffing. No scraping the ground with his hooves. In a stare-down contest I might be able to take him. If it came to a smack-down, I was toast.
I thought maybe diplomacy might be the way out. I asked him what he thought of Tuesday’s elections? Did he think winter would be early this year? How ‘bout those Cleveland Cavilers? News, weather, sports; the basics of modern-day conversations.
We looked at leach other for what seemed like a long time. It was probably 15 seconds. He exhaled a short breath. I did the same. I didn’t realize I’d been holding mine. He turned his head and looked off in the direction he was heading. He didn’t move, only stared, head raised, totally at ease. Fearless.
The birds fussing in the bushes had stopped. Were they watching and waiting? I tried to see what he was seeing as we both gazed into the scenic valley to our west. I saw colorful cars zipping on the road. A gray building I knew to be a veterinary clinic. A colorful American flag stretched to its maximum in the stiff northwest wind. Multi-colored houses spotted the scene to our left and in the distance, a housing development blighted the far side of the valley.
And there were signs. Lots of signs. Litter on a stick. Signs telling me to do this, don’t do that. Bedraggled signs advising me to vote for this or not for that. Signs telling me where political boundaries were—as if it made a difference. Garish signs directing me to the scenic byway blocked my view of the scenic byway.
What did he see? Research by the University of Georgia, University of California and the Medical College of Wisconsin indicates that deer see primarily in shades of green and blue. Researchers believe that deer probably see fluorescent orange as lime green. So, other than loss of habitat, he probably could not make much sense out of what he saw. I realized we weren’t all that much different.
One last soft exhalation and he walked away, carefully picking his way down the slope, through someone’s backyard and into the protective arms of the national park.


Field Sparrow. Note the band on its right leg.

A New Way of Seeing

Last night’s full moon

Birding in winter months is either tough in the extremis, or boring to tears. Our part of the world here in northeast Ohio offers little middle ground. Watching House Finches at the feeder every day is not exactly challenging. Feeling tears freeze to your face while standing on the shores of Lake Erie looking for gulls is more challenge than many people want.
Well, here’s a dimension to birding I suspect you’ve not tried. It offers an opportunity to see things you’ve not seen before. Or, more accurately, to see them in a different light. I call it astrobirding. Here’s how it works.
It so happens that winter months offer excellent opportunities for astrobirding. On nights with a full moon, such as last night, or near-full moon, haul your spotting scope out. Focus on the nearest astronomical object we have—the moon. If you have an eyepiece that gives you 30X magnification you’ll see sights you might not expect. It also works with binoculars, however, it’s not as exciting since you can’t get the high magnification.
Although looking at the moon before and after the midpoint of its near-monthly trip through the sky yields more exciting moon views, it’s when the moon is full that you have the best chance of spotting birds.
Actually, the moon’s not really full. It’s a half moon since we can’t see the backside, but that’s another story.
This time of the year, with clear, stable air, is ideal for astrobirding. Birds in the night sky drift overhead. Our nearest celestial neighbor makes the perfect backdrop. The next couple months provide us with some great opportunities. You’ll have about seven hours of full-moon time to stare through your scope and watch for owls, swans, cranes, flights of ducks and whatever else might be slashing through the late-fall night sky.
Check an almanac, your local paper or www.weather.com for moon rise and set times. The next three months will be great because the moon rises in the late afternoon or early evening, perfect timing.
Birds crossing the face of the moon move fast, or so it seems. They appear more as impressions than actual sightings. When you see something, back away from the eyepiece, reflect on what you saw—or thought you saw—and take an educated guess.
Silhouettes: fleeting as memories; elusive as dreams.
Any night, two or three nights on either side of the full moon work for astrobirding. In November we hit the full moon on the 2nd. In December we have a real treat—a blue moon. We have full moons on the second and the 31st. Oh my, a full moon on New Year’s Eve.
We might see some early flights of Tundra swans (already moving through the area), though they usually fly over later in the month. It’s a great way to end one year and start another.
I keep watching and hoping for a loon.


Clouds offer an artistic challenge to astrobirding.