The Name Says it All—Usually

Black-throated Blue Warbler

It was the Biggest Week in American Birding for a lot of reasons, starting with the fact that the week was a 10-day-long celebration of bird migration. Big crowds and some of the Big super-stars of the warbler family in Eastern North America for entertainment.
It was fun listening to the many conversations surrounding us, especially the new birders who most frequently asked, “What kinda warbler is that?” Most are easy answers, like Black-throated Blue, Black-throated Green, Chestnut Sided, etc.

Chestnutsided Warbler

Some names don’t always fit, like Prothonotary Warbler. I heard someone call it a “lemon head,” which sort of fits.

Prothonotary Warbler

Susan and I did an unofficial survey of license plates in the parking lot and found only 10 states missing. We’ll give Hawaii a pass. We saw two cars from Alaska! People from all over the globe migrated to northwest Ohio for a few days of intense birding. We talked with a wonderful group of birders from Scotland. I even spoke with a woman who works in Antarctica and came up for the event.

More than one person wondered if the event was not getting too big for its own good. I think we’re safe until the politicians get wind of the gathering and the fact that about 60 million people in this country consider themselves bird watchers—and we vote.

Catch the Wave on America’s North Coast

Blackburnian Warbler

When surfers talk about memorable moments on the water, conversation usually involves catching the wave. Same for birders, except we do it on land—and keep our clothes on, most of the time.
Our talk is about catching the wave of migrating birds—hitting the right spot at the right time. It’s tough to do, maybe a bigger challenge than that faced by surfers. Ours involves wind and weather, fronts and precipitation, plus a healthy dose of luck. Getting into the right spot is the easiest part.

Black-throated Blue Warbler

Yesterday at Crane Creek in northwest Ohio (chosen as one of those spots in the world you have to bird before you die) was not necessarily a wave day, however, it was a damn good day for birding. It has been so long since many people up here have seen the sun, I watched several take pictures of the unfamiliar yellow globe in the sky to show their grandchildren some day.

Blanding's turtle and bullfrog in standoff. Turtle won when frog blinked.

Susan and I have had bigger days on the famous boardwalk at Magee Marsh, only two hours from home for us. It’s just that for many reasons, yesterday’s 14-warbler species, plus another 60 or so non-warbler species felt good. It was good to get out in the sunshine and see familiar feathered friends, as well as human friends.

Eastern Screech-owl Checks his camo outfit

If you haven’t heard, this is the Greatest Week In American Birding (www.greatestweekinamericanbriding.com), in-part sponsored by the indefatigable folks at Black Swamp Bird Observatory (www.bsbo.org). If you check its Web site, and that of author Kenn Kaufman (http://cranecreekbirding.blogspot.com/), our in-residence birder extraordinaire, you can follow the excitement or learn when to catch the next wave.

Black-throated Green Warbler

Fire is Its Own Reward

Prairie fire, east-central Kansas

“Takin’ pictures, huh?”
“Yep.”
“What of?”
“Well, I …” and thus enabled, I launched into my litany of wanting to see and photograph a burn, to use the local terminology. Those of us not familiar with a burn might call it a prairie fire.
I had just stepped out of the Flint Hills Restaurant, Strong City, Kansas, having consumed more breakfast than two normal people might eat, all for less than $8, when a local cowboy leaning against his pickup spotted the arsenal of photo gear on my front seat.
“Well,” he said, looking skyward “ya might want to try north and east of Zerd. I come down that way this morning and they was burning something up there.”
I was excited. This was the best lead for seeing a fire that I had in days.
“Tell me, again, sir, where is Zerd? I don’t recall seeing that on the map.”
He looked at me, then over my shoulder as if I was hiding a troll, leaned forward a bit and said in a hushed tone usually reserved for revealing the true meaning of life, “It’s probably not on the map.”
Glancing to his left as if checking to be sure the sun was still in the right location, he said, “Go east on 50 here, about two mile. Turn north on the first road. That’s Zerd. If ya git ta Yerd you’ve gone too far. Turn around and come back.”
I thanked him and set off on my search for the Holy Grail. Almost to the inch on my GPS, a road heading north popped up at two miles. As I made the turn a road sign caught my eye: ZZ Rd.
Oh, ZZ road, not the mythical Land of Zerd. I zigged and zagged, following the billowing clouds of smoke. At one point I even crossed YY Rd, a bit disappointed there would be no Land Of Yerd, either.
The fire, like a slender bloody gash in the earth, six-inches tall, stretched across a pasture as far as I could see. It was a curious juxtaposition of towering white clouds rising from the interface of tiny flames and scorched land, into a cobalt sky. Above it all, Swainson’s Hawks hovered, dipped and danced on the 20 miles-per-hour wind. My cap went into my pocket before it could get into the flames.



After 15 minutes of making pictures, stoked by the excitement of hopping over small, fast-moving flames, which showed no respect for my presence, I jumped back onto the dirt road and headed for my car. An Oldsmobile one might expect to see in an antique car show rolled up next to me, window down, tattered elbow showing, a couple equal to the age of the car and land.
It was Mr. and Mrs. Moore. Out here, near the top of any conversation is an introduction. After the part about “Yer not from around here, are ya,” a statement, not a question, the conversation got pleasant, as if we were old friends.
When Mr. Moore said, “Well, I’ve lived here all my life. Well, that ain’t true since I ain’t dead, yet.” I looked over at Mrs. Moore, hands in lap, eyes assessing her muddy boots, a coquettish smile on her lips, a fringe of silver hair showing below the out-of-season red wool hat she wore. How many times had she heard that joke?
When he launched into how his grandfather had come to this place, right after the Civil War, the Mrs. (as he referred to her) was grinning and nodding. Another story, familiar in the retelling.
I was trying to do the mental math of how old he must be if he was third generation from a Civil War vet, when he said, “Well, enough about history. We’ll be gitting outta yer way young man.” And off they went, disappearing into the cloud that was the smoke-blanketed road.



Swainson's Hawk makes a close inspection of me

As I packed up the photo gear I saw two aberrations coming toward me from across the smoking field. Turned out to be Mr. Horton and his son, owners of the land. They walk the edges knocking down small fires that might want to jump the road, he explained. He kindly educated me, as if talking to nine-year-old kid, about fire and its beneficial purpose. Leaning on his all-metal rake handle, acting as if fire was not licking at his pant’s cuffs, he said, “We burnt about 3,000 acres this year, leaving the rest for next year.”
Again I was trying to do the mental math of how much pasture must burn in this one little spot of Kansas. I let it go to enjoy the moment.
We talked about the hawks circling above and I was pleased to be able to add to his storehouse of knowledge, that these were Swainson’s Hawks. Something he could pass on to the other ranchers.
Three of us, all grown men, stood there on an April morning, in a smoldering field, surrounded by smoke, watching birds do what they’ve done for eons. Finally, Mr. Horton kicked at a particularly stubborn patch of fire the size of a softball and said, “Well, it’s a mystery.”



Swainson's Hawks work the edges of the fire

Why the Prairie

I checked my not-so-smart cell phone to see how much further I had to go. One small bar still showed, like a nasty smudge, in the upper left corner, telling me I’d gone far, but not far enough. Good. A bit further and what passes for civilization would be a fading image in my rearview mirror.
Kansas, a great place to go when just going is the goal. A place to get off the highway, where you can stand on a rise of land and see beyond your dreams; where the distinctive song of a meadowlark interrupts then overrides the fluttering of flags, where the best view does not have to compete with litter on a stick.
It’s a place where you can stand and look inside yourself when the outside you is not what it used to be.
It’s a place where you ask yourself if you’ve gone the right direction, then realize, it doesn’t matter. The choices you made would put you right where you are—all roads lead to where you stand.
And if you stand at the right spot in Chase County, as I did, listen to history that might be wind in the barbed wire, or maybe music coming from an open barn door, squint your eyes a bit, tilt your head and give free reign to your imagination, ghosts of the past in this western land might come into focus.

How a Slow Birding Day Picks Up Speed

Swainson's Hawk

It had been one of those days that if you judge it by unrealistic goals you set for yourself, would best be described as a flop. I’m currently in Kansas, trying to get some pictures of the spring fires intentionally set to burn off last year’s grass stubble, which renews the soil in the process. Sorry, that’s the layman’s unscientific explanation.
True to form, I’m about a week late. I did see some burning, too far out of camera range, or too small to look like anything more than a trash fire. One of the rangers at the Tall Grass Prairie Preserve in Strong City explained that most burning is finished now because pasturemen have to wait a couple weeks before putting cattle onto burned pasture, and the cattlemen are anxious to get those beefies out there, now.
One thing I did observe is the way various raptors work the burned fields. Makes for easy pickins when rodents have no place to hide.
Late this afternoon I found a wide spot in the road where I could safely wait for a flock of Swainson’s Hawks to work their way over to me. I had never seen so many of this species at one time in one spot. I counted 35 birds all swooping and hover-hunting a burned pasture.
While my attention was focused on the hawks, a flurry of activity passed behind me and landed in the field on the other side of the highway in an unburned area. I could not believe my luck: More than a dozen Upland Sandpipers, a species we rarely get in Ohio, all in alternate plumage.
When I returned to watch the hawks, there one sat on the utility wire, watching me.
As Lance Armstrong says: There are no bad days; some are just better than others.



Upland Sandpipers, east-central Kansas

Ignore Reality, Find Deeper Truth

Wilson's Snipe

It was a dark and stormy night. I well remember my first snipe hunt. I was maybe a dozen years into my first-remembered incarnation, enjoying my first camping adventure as a Boy Scout, filled with the knowledge that I knew everything important enough to matter.
It was our first night in camp. One of the older scouts suggested a snipe hunt. It sounded like fun, dangerous, rewarding—all the things youth looks for in life.
Of course, we had to wait until it got dark. And it gets really dark in the woods. Dark enough to give one second thoughts about crawling around on the ground, armed with stealth, a paper bag and a multi-bladed knife.
The older guys dropped we fearless hunters at various posts around the perimeter of the camp’s parade ground. We were to keep hunting until we heard the “all clear” whistle, then run onto the parade ground with our sack filled with snipes.
The fact that we were never told how one actually captures and subdues these creatures, nor even how large they might be, didn’t seem to occur to us at the time.
If you ever want to know how long forever really is, I suggest you grab a paper bag, head out into the dark of night on your hands and knees, wait and hope for someone to blow a whistle that never happens.
Eventually you figure it out.
In my current incarnation as a birder I’ve learned the truth about snipe, Wilson’s Snipe in particular. While birding in the Big Island Wildlife Management Area (Marion County, Ohio) yesterday, Susan and I happened upon a nice flock of snipe making use of a puddle left behind by Ohio’s recent rains. As I watched them, I figured out the reason we young scouts were unable to catch any on that dark and stormy night more than a half century ago. I think the older guys dropped us in the wrong habitat.



Wilson’s Snipe Big Island Wildlife Management Area

Shooting the Moon

Even if you’re not addicted to the Weather Channel, don’t have the “What’s Up” app on your iPhone, or consult the Old Farmer’s Almanac before you venture out each day, you no doubt heard or saw some news report that last night was to be a big deal—moon wise.
Since I’m guilty of all of the above, I was more than primed for this closest visit from Luna in the past 19 years. And significantly, she’d not be back this way again for another 19 or 20 years. I did the math and figured I best make a date now, while we were both young enough to enjoy the evening.
She did not disappoint.
After consulting maps, Web sites, even my own memory banks, I opted for the Cuyahoga Valley National Park; the former Richfield Coliseum site in particular. Where once stood a massive sports and entertainment complex now resides prime open field habitat with mostly uncluttered views in all directions.
Armed with my arsenal of photo gear, waiting for Luna to arrive, I was entertained by three Short-eared Owls and more American Woodcocks than I could count. Romance was certainly in the air.



Shortly after 8 p.m. Luna arrived, resplendent in red. What an entrance she made on this evening of perigee, living up to the hyperbole that she would appear 16 percent larger and 30 percent brighter than usual. Truth be told, the difference between 221,565 miles and 250,000 miles is tough for me to discern. Plus, I have to admit I was caught in her grip of moon illusion as she climbed over tree tops on the east rim of the Cuyahoga Valley.
As her colors changed from rubber-ball red to cheddar-cheese orange and eventually shine-on silver, I thought about what life must have been for people who once lived their lives by the phases of the moon, not some human-concocted time warp made crazy twice a year with the misnomer “Daylight Savings Time.”
Saved for what, I asked the darkness.
Luna laughed, too. Daylight is daylight, just as moonlight is moonlight. And it’s all sun light and it’s all right, she said.

Look, Up in the Sky!

Saturday was one of those rare, northeast Ohio March days when the typically gray sky takes on a hue of azure, often referred to as cobalt blue by the weather folks (who don’t understand the meaning of redundancy, either), or gorgeous by the rest of us.
I’ve forgotten what the day’s plans were, however, Susan and I dumped that plan, grabbed our binoculars and headed for an open trail in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park. Recent flooding has cut off a lot of trails, so we opted for one that is away from the river—Horseshoe Pond—a great spot to see Red-breasted Nuthatches, of which we’ve far too few this winter.
Susan’s feet were barely out of the car when she shouted, “Look!” As a proficient birder and trained husband, I did not ask what or where. I could hardly believe my eyes when a Bald Eagle, which must have been perched in a tree near the parking area, took off, huge, graceful, spectacular.



As recent as 1979 the entire state of Ohio had only four nesting pairs of eagles. Now, that number is closer to 200, usually seen from a distance soaring, sometimes perched in a favorite tree near a nest site.
As we scrambled for our binoculars, cameras and breath, two young women started down the trail. As birders are wont to do, we jumped and yelled and pointed for them to look right over their heads to see the eagle. They looked at us like we were from some alien planet, speaking a language and making gestures of which they had no knowledge.
Oh well. Whatever they were listening to on their iPods must have been, well, interesting is a word that comes to mind.
We did not see the Red-breasted Nuthatches we set out to see, however, when you’re close enough to a Bald Eagle to see its red eye, well, all else pales.

Big Surprise

Downy Woodpecker contemplates a snowy treat

One of the better parts of being retired is listening to traffic reports on snowy mornings, designed for those folks who have to get to work—or else. From the warmth of our living room we turn the pages of the local newspaper and listen to classical music until the inevitable question comes up, usually after the most-gnarly traffic jam, “So, should I make some more coffee?”
Most people outside of northeast Ohio don’t know that “Cuyahoga,” the name of our major river, in Native American speak, really means, “parking lot.”
So you get days, like today, when we haven’t had snow for three or four days and people suspend the rules of sanity, drive like it was August, and generally assume the attitudes of extras from the movie, “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”
Makes for great traffic reports.
Meanwhile, the local bird population (too early for cuckoos) take it all in stride—or flap as it were. Four more inches of the white stuff does not seem to faze them.
I did notice our resident Cooper’s Hawk is wearing his “Ya Gotta B Tough to Live in Cleveland” T-shirt this morning.

Expect the Unexpected

Cedar Waxwing

The admonition, “expect the unexpected,” works well whether you’re fishing, fighting a war or birding. It even provides a fairly good guideline for blind dates.
Birders seem to take it as a matter of course that when you set out to see one thing, you're often rewarded with something else, maybe something you don’t expect. Unless, and it’s a big unless, you’re carrying a camera. Then, there’s a strange, inverse, unwritten, little-understood rule that applies: The bigger the camera you’re carrying, the less likely you are to see whatever it is you set out to see. Something like that.
So it was this afternoon when I set out, loaded with camera gear, to get some pix of newly arrived Red-winged Blackbirds. I really enjoy these noisey little guys, sharp black suits with red and yellow epaulets, constantly advertising for a mate, defending the nest territory against any and every thing. It’s strange how, in the fall, you never see these birds depart. One day they’re out there in the wetlands squawking up a storm, the next they’re gone.


Eastern Bluebird

Similarly, in the spring, one day it’s quiet along your usual walk, the next there’s a racket that can only mean one thing, the boys are back in town—and welcome back fellers, there’s a lot of quiet space out here that needs to be filled.
Saturday there was not a Red-winged Blackbird to be seen, Sunday they were all over the place and I did not have a camera. I planned to get some pix on Monday, but then the sky opened and the Cuyahoga River jumped its banks by a whopping 22.7 feet, second highest flood stage since someone started keeping records.
So today was the day, bright, sunny, crisp, some high cirrus clouds, light winds. A day filled with promise. As I started down the bike/hike trail near my house I realized something was missing. Not a blackbird to be heard. I thought I detected one calling way off. A half mile into my walk and still not a peep, or aarrraaakkkkk, as it were. Things were not going according to my plan.
A mile into the walk I was having serious second and third thoughts about getting those blackbird pictures. I heard some rustling and high-pitched squabbling in the bushes behind me. I turned to see what all the chatter was and faced an estimated 50 Cedar Waxwings, eye level, paying no attention me.
Five minutes later a took my first breath. Whew! What a rush. Then Eastern Bluebirds got off the bird bus and flew into the bushes now vacated by the waxwings. There were not as many bluebirds, however, a little bit of that azure color goes a long way in the drab days of early March.
I turned at my 1.5 mile spot and headed for home, thoroughly satisfied, even without the Red-winged Blackbird photo I came for. Aarrraaakkkkk, right on cue he arrived. One bird. But one was all I needed.


Red-winged Blackbird

Spring’s True Harbinger

Northern Cardinal, leader of the spring chorus, and fanciest dresser

I was out walking early this morning, well, relatively early, about 8 a.m., when I noticed one of those spring harbingers. It was not one many people talk about. Forget about that first-robin-of spring myth. American Robins can be found year round in northeast Ohio.
No, for birders, I think the first indication, the promise that we will not freeze to death or run out of food before winter’s end, is the dawn chorus; that glorious sound of birds competing to see who has the loudest, best song among their own kind and among all the other singers. The chorus lasts not long enough.




American Goldfinch preparing his spring outfit

It can bring about one of those whacky challenges when you’re camping, before the sun has made it’s decision to brighten the day, birds start singing and you and your tent mate try to name as many species as possible. Sometimes it’s that incessant cardinal perched on the railing outside your bedroom window at 4 a.m., unsure if he’s getting home late or getting up early, who wants to be sure everyone else in the world is there to celebrate the crack of dawn with him.
Hey, we’re retired. We know how to find fun, wherever.
This morning I stopped in my tracks, single-digit temperatures aside, to listen to the dawn chorus, an unfamiliar sound from familiar birds. It was all the usual suspects, cardinals, chickadees, robins and titmice. The song they sang, “It Won’t Be Long Now,” is one of my most favorites.



Carolina Wren, a welcome, unfamiliar voice in the dawn chorus

Snow by Any Definition

Western Snowy Plover


Snowy does not always mean what you think. California, a land of contrasts if there ever was one, plays host to two highly endangered birds: the huge California Condor and the tiny Western Snowy Plover.
With a name like Snowy, you’d suspect the bird had some connection to lands farther north than California, especially the beaches of California. Not so. Linnaeus named this small bird (Charadrius alexandrinus) in 1758 (Syst. Nat. 10(1):150) for its presence in Alexandria, Egypt. It’s found, in small numbers, worldwide. I suppose it got the snowy part of its name from its ghost-like color.
The Pacific Coast population of the Western Snowy Plover is federally listed under the Endangered Species Act of 1973 as threatened. The Western Snowy Plover is a Bird Species of Special Concern in California. Snowy plovers were listed as endangered under Washington’s (state) Department of Game Policy, and as threatened by the Oregon Fish and Wildlife Commission. A lot of folks are concerned about this tiny bird, only the size of a fat sparrow.
Plovers will use almost anything they can find on the beach to make their nests, including kelp, driftwood, shells, rocks, and even human footprints.



Footprints make a great spot to rest

Although it was not nesting season while Susan and I were recently in California, we visited a protected area near Isla Vista where we had found the bird in the past. Sure enough, a few birds were hanging out, eating bugs, doing all those plover things, paying little attention to us humans.
Unfortunately, that could be the birds’ downfall. It tolerates us, and other creatures, to the point of its own demise. It nests in piles of dead kelp, even human footprints. It’s easy pickins for dogs, and many other introduced predators. When disturbed enough they will run away, leaving the nest and eggs vulnerable.
I sat and watched the birds for a while to see what they do, since surfing, texting and television do not seem to be part of their game plan. It seems what the do best, or most, is watch. They watched me watching them. They watch the tides and the foaming waves. They seem to like to stand and feel the wind and its direction, then turn accordingly so their feathers can ruffle. They watch each other for companionship and to initiate a chase for no reason I could determine. They particularly watch human activity. They watch people walk past. They watch dogs on leash and off leash, it doesn't make a bit of difference to them.
The longer I watched the more I realized I was getting a life lesson here and I better pay attention.



Feeling the wind, checking the footprints, another busy day for a Western Snowy Plover

Looking Forward to the Past

The La Huerta Project at the Mission of Santa Barbara, California

While Susan and I were in California recently, recharging our solar-powered batteries, we paid a visit to an interesting gardening project she read about. It’s called the La Huetra Project at the mission in Santa Barbara.

Upon arrival at the mission, our first challenge was finding a way into the garden area. Had it been left to me we’d still be wandering around the parking lot looking for the gate. Susan wisely asked directions of the first person she saw. Turns out she asked the right guy. It just happened to be Jerry Sortomme, professor emeritus of the Santa Barbara City College Environmental Horticulture program. He’s been the spearhead of this project to locate and propagate plants for a new mission garden since 2003. The original idea-seeds for this project were sewn in 1999.

We could not have asked for a better, more genial host or more-informed guide. Jerry not only gave us a history lesson in gardening, I think during the more than two hours we spent with him, he brought us up speed on everything that’s happened along the California coast since 1769.

The heart and soul—you might say the mission—of the mission project is to recreate the huerta, or garden, (some Spanish translations of this word say it is like a door or entrance way) where friars cultivated food and other usable crops required for their daily life in the early 1800s. Jerry said the garden has, and will have, no plants that arrived in California after 1834, about the time when the Mexican government, which achieved independence in 1822, took a hard look at what was known as Alta California and decided to secularize the missions.

Jerry and his team of volunteers do a lot of spade work even before the digging starts outside. They research long lists of plants grown during the mission era, delving into the writings of church officials as well as early visitors and residents. The array of non-native and native plants grown on mission property is long and interesting. Some records go back as early as 1769. Of special interest to Jerry are heritage plants. These are species that represent living material, obtained from unaltered plants documented to be from a particular place and time. He uses modern DNA testing to verify cuttings, like that of a 100-year-old grapevine to assure that it is the authentic ‘Mission’ grape.

Through the dedicated efforts of volunteers, this project will keep alive a part of history rapidly being lost not only in California, but all over the planet as we—for better or worse—alter the structure of plants. So, if you’re in the area of Santa Barbara and you want to see what life, garden life, was like before 1834, stop in at the mission’s La Huerta garden. And, if you can’t suppress the urge to get your hands dirty, pull a few weeds, or dead-head flowers, visit on a Wednesday morning. Jerry can always use another volunteer.



Jerry Sortamme, who has headed the La Huerta Project for nearly a decade, answered all Susan's questions--and more

Feeding in February

Downy Woodpeckers on a lunch date


This morning I was reminded that February is Bird Feeder Month for those of us in the birding world. It’s time to pay a bit more attention to our feathered friends, I suppose because we’re often snowed in and can’t do anything else but sit at the window and dream of sunny days to come.
Around our place we long ago realized that by adding a water element, i.e. a bird bath, to our array of feeders, we attract more than our share of birds and other critters. Along with birds we get most of the squirrels in northern Summit County, as well as, per tracks in the snow, the occasional White-tailed deer.
It’s the birds, however, that provide the most entertainment. Often American Robins, four or five at a time, line the edge of the bird bath (heated in this weather, of course) and drink in unison, picking up beaks full of water, then tipping their heads back like a chorus of gospel singers to drink. Fascinating are the Mourning Doves, one of the few species of birds that can swallow, thus dipping their heads in to their eyeballs to suck up their drinks.
Most impressive is the politeness of it all. It’s not uncommon to see a half dozen species of birds sitting in the branches waiting their turns at the water. I think our politicians could learn a lesson in deportment here: Wait your turn at the public trough, there’s plenty for everyone.
This Winter we’ve had our quota of the usual feeder suspects, plus the occasional Pine Siskin along with a single Common Redpoll who put in a cameo appearance a few weeks ago.
So, if you’re thinking about feeding birds during these harsh winter months (you can do it year round and enjoy the antics youngsters in the Spring), consider adding a heated bird bath. It will increase your enjoyment and add, measurably, to the birds’ ability to survive.



American Robins with an invited European Starling guest

Two Questions, Maybe Three

Red-tailed Hawk

I’ve been fortunate to bird in California for the past 10 days or so, long enough to get that California-mellow feeling about most things in life. So, this morning, birding a spot I had not visited for several years because of fire damage, I was Mr. Mellow, more or less ready for anything. I was hit with a couple questions, questions I seem to hear wherever I bird, questions I was able to answer in a laid-back manner, not the usual smart-ass replies I prefer to give. When it was all over, I thought about the questions and tried to find some common denominator.
Question one, from two women walking what I suppose were dogs.
Them: (All eyes, smiles and excitement.) Seen any good birds, yet?
Me: (Thinking all birds are good. And what’s a good, or bad, bird? And ‘yet’ implies that I will.) Oh yeah, but then, I’m from Cleveland so …
Them: (Mumbling something about Cleveland.) Great weather. What didja see?
Me: (Always ready to educate.) Well, there’s a nice Spotted Towhee just ahead of you, and Lesser Goldfinches seem to be everywhere.
Them: (Already disengaged.) Well, have a nice day!
Me: (Somewhat baffled.) Ah, thanks.
The second question of the morning was one our birding buddy, Pat Coy, absolutely loves, looks forward to, stays up at night in anticipation of.
Man walking his dog: (Making a statement, not asking a question.) So, you’re a bird watcher?
Me: (Being mellow.) Yup.
Him: (Authoritatively.) So, ya seen any eagles, yet.
Me: (Trying my damndest to repress a laugh.) Well, no. Don’t really expect to. It’d be nice, of course, but …
Him: (Not letting me finish.) Hell’s bells, they’re all over the place. Look right over there.
Me: (Always ready to educate.) Ah, that’s a Red-tailed Hawk.
Him: (Turning to leave in a huff.) Bullshit.
Me: (Being mellow.) Ah, have a nice day.
The third question was similar to the first two, really more of a statement than a question. Three well-dressed (for walking) ladies with one white dog smaller than most cats I’ve seen.
Lady with the bluest hair: (Eyes on all my cameras, binoculars, etc.) Are you looking for birds?
Me: (Asking the higher powers not to say, ‘No, fish, actually.) Yup.
Lady #2: (Trying not to have her kneecaps sliced by the frigging dog that kept yapping and running around.) Do you need all that stuff?
Me: (Suddenly feeling the various straps cut into my flesh.) Well, I take a lot of pictures and …
Lady #1: (Trying to skip rope with the dog leash.) Why don’t you just look them up in the internets? That’s easier. Besides, where are they?
Me: (Blinded by this flash of the obvious.) Ah, well, ah, all you have to do is look up …
The trio: (Satisfied they had given me necessary advice to succeed in life.) You just have a nice day, young man.
I had to sit on the nearest log, totally exhausted, and think about this last hour of conversations. These people were all out walking in a county park, so how could they be so oblivious to their surroundings?
That was when I remembered something a botanist told us yesterday, “There are a lot of people suffering from NDD around here.”
I had to ask what NDD was, and prepared to stop at the local pharmacy to get some protection.
“It’s Nature Deficit Disorder,” he said.



Lesser Goldfinch

Breakfast Banter

I was having breakfast, so was he, each on his chosen side of the glass. He watched as I spooned in oatmeal, coffee, juice, toast, the whole deal.
I tried not to feel guilty. The feeders had been filled the day before so there was no shortage of dusty, dry sunflower seeds and ice-cold water.



When he was sure I had finished, he began to examine the branch he had perched upon. He thoroughly inspected each new bud, then, finding one to his liking, assaulted it with vigor.



What better way to take on the new year than with a full belly.

End of the Year

Northern Shovelers, Castalia, Ohio

It’s not uncommon at this time of year for birders to take a look at their life list and contemplate adding one more bird, or maybe chasing after a rare sighting in the area to sort of pump up the yearly species total. This past week I found myself guilty on both counts. The end result can be both good and less than good.
First, I thought Santa was going to deliver an early Christmas present to me. A few days before the holiday word popped up on the Ohio Ornithological Society’s hot line that several Ross’s Geese were at Castalia Pond, about 75 miles away, along with several Cackling Geese. The alarm bells sounded in our household and it wasn’t the jingling of sleigh bells. While both Susan and I have tallied the Ross’s Goose, the Cackling variety of Canada Goose has eluded us.
Plans were made, snacks packed, car gassed up and off we went. Oh, we did have company for the holidays, my brother in from the nation’s capital. He had heard of this bird-chasing habit of ours but had never witnessed it. I might add that he hates cold weather and the day’s temperature was 18—not a good combination.



American Wigeon, Castalia, Ohio

The end of the story is that it turned out to be a wild goose chase. The “target” birds were nowhere to be seen. My brother could not understand why we were not dismayed at driving all that distance and not seeing the bird. I tried to explain it’s an acquired skill, missing the target but hitting something else, like stunning Northern Shovelers and American Wigeons.
Then, on New Year’s Eve day, we had a repeat performance, sort of. This time it was a Golden Eagle reported at Mosquito Creek Wildlife Area, about 75 miles in the opposite direction. Again, we’ve both tallied the golden, but it’s so rare in Ohio, you just have to chase it—if at all possible. Our first in Ohio, several years ago, was on a day when the thermometer never got above minus 13. Now, that’s chilly—but worth it.
Again, to shorten the story, the beautiful Golden Eagle was not to be seen. In its place we tallied six Bald Eagles, an equally rare sight in Ohio.
All of which goes to prove, sometimes you win and sometimes you win in the birding game—true sport has no losers.



Bald Eagle, Mosquito Creek Wildlife Area

Not Just Another Sparrow—Part 2

Eurasian Tree Sparrow

For many birders, making a trip to St. Louis was, and still is, akin to a trip to any spot of birding where a rarity can be found. It was, is, the only place in the U.S. where you could tick the Eurasian Tree Sparrow off your life list.
A lot of mysteries surround this diminutive bird, the greatest for me is why the bird does not expand beyond its current range. Twenty-five years ago there was an article in the American Birding Association’s newsletter about the sparrow and how to locate it—within a well-defined neighborhood in St. Louis. Over the years the article has helped a lot of birders track down this little guy.
Now, it seems the bird is expanding its range from the three-block area where it has thrived. We’ve seen it across the Mississippi River in the Riverlands Project area and, fortunately, in the suburbs—right at my mother-in-law’s feeder on occasion. Today was such an occasion.
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 are not physically remarkable, only rare—which makes it remarkable, I guess. It’s still somewhat secretive out here in the ‘burbs, so any sighting is worth recording. As luck would have it, the trio I saw this morning was cavorting with some House Sparrows allowing for great size and color comparisons.
I suppose purists complain about these essentially invasive species, however, the diversity crowd seems to have assured the continuation of these critters, based on the notion that a life bird is a life bird.