What Are Snowies Up To This Winter?

Snowy Owl, Chippewa County, Michigan, February 2013

Here's an interesting look at Snowy Owl (Bubo scadiacus) reports for November of the past seven years. 2011 was the greatest Snowy irruption in many birders' memories. I'm curious what the distribution this year means. A higher-than-usual amount of sightings, but much more clustered on the Atlantic coast. This is more reminiscent of 2008. The 2011 irruption appears centered on the Great Lakes, with a lot of that spilling over into fall of 2012 - an echo of the great irruption? So, what's going on this year, and why?

All images are screen grabs from eBird. 

2007 - November

2008 - November

2009 - November

2010 - November

2011 - November

2012 - November

2013 - November

Sunset at the Sewage Pond - Willcox, Arizona Style

“As long as we’re passing through town, it would be silly not to stop at the sewage ponds.”

That’s the kind of sentence that makes perfect sense to birders and none at all to our friends with less eccentric hobbies.  Those of us who chase birds know that nutrient-rich sewage effluent leads to lots of aquatic life which in turn attracts a plethora of birds. It doesn’t always smell so great, but it’s not toxic and the trend these days is increasingly to create artificial wetlands with it. Nature does a phenomenal job of purifying water and birders get to reap the rewards if the wastewater authorities are friendly enough to allow visitors. I’m lucky enough to have the Muskegon County Wastewater Management System 90 minutes from my home. I think most birders in Michigan have gotten at least a handful of lifers at that massive facility. When you go into the office to pick up your visitor pass, you’ll notice the walls have framed photographs of birds from the property. How cool is that?

With all of that in mind, it made sense that the wife and I took time on our recent trip to Arizona to visit Tucson’s effluent, the cheekily-named Sweetwater Wetlands. There was plenty of good stuff there, but our best wastewater experience of the trip was yet to come.

Lake Cochise - Willcox, Arizona (Chiricahua Mtns. in the east)

At the end of a short week of extremely intense birding, we were returning to Tucson from the Chiricahua Mountains, ready to catch an early flight home the next morning. Our path necessarily passed through the town of Willcox, and with about 50 minutes of light left in the day, I suggested a stop at the effluent pond. It's a known spot to birders, and Willcox itself hosts the annual Wings Over Willcox Birding and Nature Festival every January. 

We turned the down road past the golf course and followed the arrowed “birders” signs to Lake Cochise (aka Cochise Lake). I’m not sure how the great Apache warrior would feel about having his name applied to such aromatic water, but after signing in at the guest book, I knew we were on some serious birding ground.

 Lake Cochise is what we’d call a pond back in Michigan, but in the desert I suppose “lake” is an apt title. I wasn’t expecting any earth-shaking birding. Our shorebird, wader, and waterfowl needs are minimal and highly unlikely to be filled in Arizona. I actually couldn’t think of a lifer we’d be likely to get there, other than maybe White-faced Ibis. That bird was rapidly approaching nemesis status for Sarah and me. We’d chased it multiple times in Michigan to no avail, and somehow managed to escape North Dakota and Texas without seeing one. We’d gotten a Glossy Ibis in Michigan, yet not the more commonly encountered White-faced. I figured Lake Cochise would be just a short change of pace from the desert birding we’d been doing, and a good opportunity to pad the Arizona state list.

Avocets, stilts, and phalropes

The first thing I saw was a line of American Avocets sprinkled with Black-necked Stilts, two of my top five favorite birds. This was an auspicious start and was already reducing my annoyance at the decidedly distasteful odor. The next thing my eyes were drawn to was the spinning. Lots and lots of spinning. The spinning of a few hundred Wilson’s Phalaropes. Phalaropes do this to create an upwelling that delivers food to the surface. The hilarious thing is that you can see them doing it in ankle-deep water as well. Check out the guy in the upper left of the first video.

Supposedly each individual will consistently spin in one direction only. There are clockwise and counter-clockwise phalaropes like there are right and left-handed people.

Seeing all of this spinning was so hypnotizing I almost missed the Black Tern standing by his lonesome on a rock and the two Long-billed Curlews that flew in. Light was fading fast. There was barely time to give the assembled peeps more than a passing glance. (Western and Least for sure…possibly others.) I wanted to snap a few sunset pictures before we left. The sun had just dipped below the Dragoon Mountains in the west.

Black-necked Stilts and sunset behind the Dragoons

It was then that my peripheral vision caught four blackish shapes coming in from the north. My mind ran through a few questions in the fraction of a second it took me to raise my binoculars. Geese? Herons? No, when I finally got on them I saw the long, decurved bills, not of more curlews, but of White-faced Ibis. Four of them landed in front of us and began their pre-slumber preening as phalaropes mindlessly spun in circles nearby. Our final lifer of a hyper-productive trip to Arizona – after sunset on our last birding day at a place we stopped at on a whim. A nemesis slain.

We watched until the darkness swallowed the peeps, the tern, the avocets, and the stilts. We drove slowly past the east side of the lake, admiring the last pink in the western sky. As we pulled away and said goodbye to Arizona, all I could still see were dozens of tiny spinning shapes and the silhouettes of four tall, dark waders with delicate, decurved bills. Life was good.  

A Hot Afternoon at the Moo

Pointe Mouillee State Game Area, administered by the Michigan DNR, is billed as one of the largest freshwater marsh restoration projects in the world. (Mouillee is pronounced MOO-yay, hence birders calling it “Point Moo” or simply “The Moo”) It’s a massive area of dikes, marshes, and bayous on the west end of Lake Erie. During fall shorebird migration, this is THE place to be in the Great Lakes area.

Great Egret (Ardea alba)

Heavily worn Solitary Sandpiper (Tringa solitaria)

Sarah and I headed out there last Sunday (July 14, 2013) to catch up with a report of a Glossy Ibis in breeding plumage. The Plegadis sp. ibises have been giving me fits with White-faced Ibis making a run at becoming my nemesis bird.

Song Sparrow (Melospiza melodia) still singing in mid-July

It was hot and humid, and there is no shade at Pointe Mouillee, but thankfully a constant breeze kept it from being too stifling.

Yours truly on a lonely road at Point Moo. (Photo by Sarah Adams)

The Odonate action was pretty intense. Halloween Pennants and Common Pondhawks were everywhere. The Common Pondhawks are one of the most ferocious hunters you’ll ever encounter. They will take down anything they see up to their own size and sometimes including their own kind. Beautiful dragonflies, but I’d not want to be two inches tall and see one coming. Watching pondhawks hunt always makes me want to go back in time to the Carboniferous period (300 million years ago) when “dragonflies” of the Meganeura had wingspans of over two feet. My housecats wouldn’t be safe around those things.

Female Common Pondhawk (Erythemis simplicicollis)

Blue Dasher (Pachydiplax longipennis)

Female Black Swallowtail (Papilio ployxenes)

Monarch (Danaus plexippus), a rare sight this year

The birding was so-so. Shorebird season is just starting to warm up. We did get the Glossy Ibis. Quite a beautiful bird. I’m looking forward to seeing one a little closer on our next jaunt through Florida.

Glossy Ibis (Plagedia falcinellis) among some Canada Geese

Tree Swallow Yoga

Found a gorgeous Tree Swallow (Tachycineta biocolor) enjoying a hot spring morning at Fenner Nature Center.  I offer some screen grabs from a video showing the latest in Yoga poses and stretches the trendy and healthy Tree Swallow practices.

Count Dracula

The Flag

Regal (like an Eagle)

Voila!

The Front Stroke

Landing Gear

Situation Normal

The Flare

Hand Behind My Back

The Twist

The Pretzel

Caped Crusader

Iron Man

The Angel 

Rocket Launch

Here's the whole video:

For the Love of Lifers

Valentine’s Day is approaching along with its expectations that we support the corporate juggernaut by buying expensive, intrinsically worthless objects to supposedly prove our love for that special someone. That’s not my cup of tea, so I’m going to talk about birds.

For most of the fall and early winter there had been reports of Purple Sandpipers (Calidris maritima) hanging around a rocky break-wall on the Lake Michigan shore. It was in Pere Marquette Park in the city of Muskegon, Michigan to be precise. That’s not a hard spot to get to, but my wife and I were living lives of unprecedented upheaval at that time. Jobs and homes were being juggled like flaming chainsaws and birds weren’t on the agenda, even potential lifers like these.

Juncos were about as exciting as it got.

Yes, that’s correct, we’ve done a good bit of birding, but had failed to cross paths with Purple Sandpipers. Our Atlantic coast trips were either at the wrong time of year or before our more avid birding days. On the Great Lakes, we get Purples, but they aren’t that common.  

Purple Sandpipers are pretty awesome shorebirds. While you typically look for your sandpipers in places like tidal mudflats, flooded farm fields (a favorite in this region during migration), or even shallow ponds and pools (for the taller guys like the Yellowlegs), with Purple Sandpipers you’re exploring the rocky wave-swept shoreline. If you see rocks getting pummeled by waves and figure all the sensible shorebirds are a kilometer away on the sandy beach, you might be in perfect Purple habitat.

Not Purple Sandpiper habitat - no rocks and the Peregrine doesn't help either.

Sarah and I dipped on a reported Purple Sandpiper in the town of Harrisville on the Lake Huron shore in November. We also just barely missed one in the town of Oscoda a bit further south. By the time the birds in Muskegon were being reported, Sarah had moved downstate to Lansing and I was still in the frozen inland up north wrapping up things at the house there.

On stunningly gorgeous January morning, I ventured south to visit my wife and decided to make the trip 385 miles instead of 175 by diverting to the Lake Michigan shore for some birding. A Peregrine Falcon that allowed me to watch him enjoying lunch for 15 minutes in Ludington State Park was an auspicious start.

Sadly, it didn’t pan out for the sandpipers. I walked the break-wall and stood at the end for an hour enjoying Common Goldeneyes, Horned Grebes, and the usual gulls. The fishermen there told me the sandpipers had been around that morning, but there was no sign of them in the afternoon. That was really fine with me. I knew I’d have a chance to bring Sarah back in a couple days and we’d get the lifer together as we always try to do. Birding (and nature watching in general) is a team hobby for us. We both enjoy it immensely and it’s a special part of our relationship. Any bird seen when your partner isn’t with you is somewhat less exciting, but a lifer can be particularly bittersweet.

This is good Purple Habitat - especially when they've been reported here for weeks.

And so it came to pass that two short days later Sarah and I jumped in the Prius, stuffed our birding buddy Josh in the backseat with the optics, and headed out to Muskegon. The weather report wasn’t making me too happy, but I held out high hopes. When we got there, there were waves crashing completely over the break-wall sending spray fifty feet into the air. Purple Sandpipers like waves, but this was a bit much. I scanned potential habitat on the leeward side of the wall with no luck. There would be no lifers today. Not for us, at least. We stopped by the sewage ponds (it’s a birder thing) and got Josh his life Snowy Owl. That made the trip worthwhile for all of us. A lifer makes a good trip, even if it isn’t yours.

Adult male, no less.

The story may have ended there, but I’m a birder. I decided to recreate my double-distance return to the north two days later and go from Point A to Point B via Point M, Muskegon. First week of January, 50 degrees Fahrenheit, perfect calm on Lake Michigan’s typically blustery shore. Absurdly weird weather. I threw the scope on my shoulder and began strolling out toward the break-wall. As the path left the sandy beach, I glanced at the first rocks of the wall and saw two Purple Sandpipers standing there returning my gaze. Three yards away. Lifer. And I didn’t even smile.

I spent an hour with the birds, mostly just watching them probing the rocks for tasty invertebrates and ignoring the gentle waves. I took a break to scope a gorgeous pair of Long-tailed Ducks and a male Common Goldeneye. When I figured I’d drank in the birds enough to sate my personal shorebird lust for one winter morning, I returned to the car and drove straight home, alone. Sarah was back in the city getting ready for work. I knew we’d be back together in a new home in a few short weeks, and not long after that we’d be adventuring around during spring migration.

For now, I was driving through the wilds of Michigan on a gorgeous mid-winter day and musing not about seeing Purple Sandpipers, but that Sarah had missed them. I was wishing I hadn’t been able to find them until we found them together on a beach in Virginia next year. Without my partner to share them with, the Purple Sandpiper was the worst lifer ever. And I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Happy Valentine’s Day. And, Sarah, there’s a rocky cove on Maine’s Downeast coast with our name on it – and Calidris maritima on every slimy rock.

Cape Breton Highlands National Park, Nova Scotia. Minutes after getting our lifer Blackpoll Warbler.

Crossbills vs. Hemlock

With some unseasonably warm weather lingering (but predicted to end), I headed out on a January morning to Hartwick Pines State Park. This is a real gem in Michigan's park system. It would be amazing in any state! Harboring some of the Midwest's last virgin White Pines, Hartwick Pines straddles what I like to call the Grayling Line. There's an imaginary line that goes through east-to-west through the town of Grayling, Michigan that unofficially marks the southern boundary of the "North". South of this line, you will rarely find boreal species of birds - or anything for that matter. Look at range maps for plants, birds, insects, reptiles, etc. in the Great Lakes region and you'll see an astounding number of organisms that call the Grayling Line either the northern or southern extreme of their range.

Thus, I like to bird here. In the summer, some of the northern birds common in the far north will nest this far south. And in the winter, you can have an experience like I had this week.

I was strolling along, enjoying the smell of a grove of Eastern Hemlocks. (This is also the line where hemlocks start becoming scarce, although you can find them much farther south in Michigan, they are far less common. Luckily the Hemlock Wooly Adelgid hasn't gotten here...yet.)

While watching a Red-breasted Nuthatch bouncing on a log, I heard a flutter of many wings and some frenzied flight calls just before the hemlock above my head burst into movement. Every branch was swinging and hemlock cone refuse was raining on me. The tree I was standing under was suddenly being brutalized by a flock of White-winged Crossbills.

Crossbills are fascinating birds. Their bills are indeed crossed, so that it appears they have a deformity that would make feeding problematic if not impossible. It turns out that bill adaptation is ideal to give the bird leverage to pry open conifer cones to extract it's favorite food, seeds. I'd seen Red Crossbills (Loxia curvirostra) on Lopez Island in Washington, but all my looks at White-winged Crossbills (Loxia leucoptera) had been poor. A fleeting glimpse of a flock here and there. On this blessed morning, I got all I wanted and more.

You can see how it got the crossbill name...as well as the white-winged part.

White-winged Crossbills strongly prefer hemlock and spruce trees for foraging. If you live up north, and there's a good cone crop on some local trees, stake it out and treat yourself to a crossbill feeding frenzy.

This one was reaching for a cone. I love the coloring of the breast.