As is the case with any human activity, there are days when birdwatching reaps huge “benefits” for participants…you know, those days when something truly out-of-the-ordinary steals your attention and causes an immense adrenaline rush. What constitutes an out-of-the-ordinary avian encounter is different for every person, but it always involves birds that are beautiful, graceful, especially fascinating, or rare—in other words, unusual. Memorable occurrences such as an out-of-range species that provides a first record for a state or country, a trip to a wetland where thousands of waterfowl are congregating, stormy weather in spring bringing astonishing numbers of colorful neotropical migrant songbirds to a tiny patch of woods, and of course seeing a life bird all involve a feeling of intense concentration, combined with that welcome surge of adrenaline.
It’s a mild day in January.
For birders, midwinter days—as well as those of midsummer—seldom bring
the intense excitement and anticipation that characterize other times of year,
but this doesn’t concern me. As I head
out the back door, I notice the slight breeze and the freshness of the air; a
cold front that moved in last night after the violent storms has left the
temperature hovering at about 50 degrees Fahrenheit—although certainly not
cold, it is cool enough for a light jacket, and chillier than it has been for a
number of weeks. The white airbrush
streaks of airplane contrails mark an otherwise clear, azure sky—a far cry from
the brooding grayness, rolling clouds, and fierce wind, rain and hail of
yesterday. I had originally figured that
the conditions yesterday might have caused some birds to be more active today,
but as I stand in the back yard, listening and watching, it crosses my mind
that this will likely be one of the slower days of birding—in other words, an
“ordinary” day.
Some of the first bird sounds to reach my ears are from the
“regulars”—chickadees, titmice, and Carolina Wrens calling in the woods some distance
away. I walk across the soggy, gray lawn
to the thicket behind the old outbuilding.
This thicket was mostly cleared out several years ago, but since then it
has been allowed to grow into an impenetrable mass of tangled vegetation, the
haunt of nesting Carolina Wrens, Northern Cardinals, and Brown Thrashers in
summer. Lush and green during that time
of year, now the intertwined grasses, saplings, and vines are bare, gray, and
brambly. As I look closer, though, I
notice that a few plants still have some green vegetation, and last year’s dry
leaves dangle from the branches of some of the sapling oaks.
A brief, scratchy call note, evoking the sound of a
mechanical toy being wound, sounds from the upper branches of a large pecan
tree in the thicket. Oh, a Ruby-crowned
Kinglet. As I watch, the tiny bird
flutters up to pluck small white berries from clusters growing near the pecan
tree—poison ivy berries. I follow these
berry-laden branches with my binoculars, and with a sense of fascination mixed with
horror, I find that the poison ivy has grown in the form of a large shrub,
rather than the vines that I commonly see.
Its thick, hairy trunk leans against the old pecan tree. Whoa.
I step away from the thicket and look at the sky, hoping to see a hawk
or two. As it turns out, one of the neighborhood Red-tailed Hawks is soaring overhead, the sun shining through the rust-red feathers of its rectrices—an unexpectedly beautiful sight.
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| Red-tailed Hawk |
I walk down the slope of our backyard to the pond, and from
there I go to the marshy ditch on the southeast side. The “marsh” itself is home to willows,
cattails, and various types of grasses, while pines and brushy woods grow on
the northeast side of the pond. White-throated
Sparrows flush up in bunches in front of me and land in the woodland cover several
feet away, exchanging sharp peek! calls. They are most likely alarmed by the presence of this strange, flightless intruder. If I’m careful, I can creep into the woods to
look at these large sparrows, which are plumaged in subdued, yet striking,
gray, brown, white, and yellow feathers. Sure
enough, I spot some of them as they dart in and out of the shrubbery. A single,
dry check note fills me in on the whereabouts of a Yellow-rumped
Warbler, perhaps calling to its associates that are also somewhere in the
woods, hidden from view.
The churr churr call of a Red-bellied Woodpecker sounds faintly off in the forest. I wonder where it is, exactly; most of the time, I see these woodpeckers close by in the yard, foraging in the old pecan and walnut trees. Of course, this might not be one of the individuals that I see in our yard, but it easily could be—I’m sure that their territory includes much more than the few acres that comprise our property. Barely detectable over the sound of the woodpecker are the little chipping calls of Pine Warblers moving through the pine thicket some distance away. Pine Warblers tend to travel in small groups, and are seldom seen far from pine trees. These warblers are too far away to locate at the moment, so I turn my attention to other things. A small creek runs through these woods—barely a creek, actually… it appears more like a shallow ditch, filled with runoff from yesterday’s rain. Just the fact that there is a depression, though, makes me think that the stream of water must run through here most of the time. Both sides of the creek are lined with dense privet bushes, laden with clumps of small, bruise-colored berries. Many naturalists hate privet with a passion; the invasive shrub is spread around in bird droppings, choking out native vegetation wherever it sprouts. Although I’m not thrilled to see it here, the White-throated Sparrows darting in and out of its luxuriant growth seem to have quite a different opinion.
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| White-throated Sparrow |
The churr churr call of a Red-bellied Woodpecker sounds faintly off in the forest. I wonder where it is, exactly; most of the time, I see these woodpeckers close by in the yard, foraging in the old pecan and walnut trees. Of course, this might not be one of the individuals that I see in our yard, but it easily could be—I’m sure that their territory includes much more than the few acres that comprise our property. Barely detectable over the sound of the woodpecker are the little chipping calls of Pine Warblers moving through the pine thicket some distance away. Pine Warblers tend to travel in small groups, and are seldom seen far from pine trees. These warblers are too far away to locate at the moment, so I turn my attention to other things. A small creek runs through these woods—barely a creek, actually… it appears more like a shallow ditch, filled with runoff from yesterday’s rain. Just the fact that there is a depression, though, makes me think that the stream of water must run through here most of the time. Both sides of the creek are lined with dense privet bushes, laden with clumps of small, bruise-colored berries. Many naturalists hate privet with a passion; the invasive shrub is spread around in bird droppings, choking out native vegetation wherever it sprouts. Although I’m not thrilled to see it here, the White-throated Sparrows darting in and out of its luxuriant growth seem to have quite a different opinion.
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| Red-bellied Woodpecker |
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| Blue Jay |
The White-throated Sparrows are starting to return to the territories
from which I initially disturbed them.
They are settling in for the evening.
The sun will set soon, and it seems like a good time to turn in, so I
head back to the house. On the way, I
stop to admire the faint pastel colors just beginning to appear in the
sky. It’s a nice ending to this
midwinter day in the field, and a reminder that not all exciting birding
experiences must be intense. In fact, I
wonder if an unending stream of amazing, adrenaline-pumping experiences would
just tend to blend together, as the “ordinary” days do. On the other hand, as self-proclaimed
naturalists, finding something to enjoy in every outing should be one of our
biggest priorities—and it’s rarely a difficult task to discover something worth
watching in nature’s fascinating show.
