Saw Mill River Audubon – Connecting People and Nature Since 1953

Sunset Dance

SMRA October 16, 2023

The alert came in at around 6:00 in the evening: More than 200 migrating Common Nighthawks spotted flying past a nearby hawkwatch. Then, a few minutes later, a second alert: Dozens of nighthawks were flying over downtown Croton, near where I live.

Creatures of dusk and dawn, Common Nighthawks are among my wife’s and my favorite birds, and one we hadn’t seen in recent years. So the local report sent us outside to stand in the middle of our street, staring upward. (I can only imagine the looks we got from our non-birding neighbors!)

And there the nighthawks were: First one, then more—three a time, five—winging overhead. We recognized them instantly by their mottled gray, brown, and buff plumage, the white blazes out near the end of their long, angled wings, and their loose-jointed flight as they dipped and darted high above. It was a ghostly and wondrous sight.

As we were watching, we suddenly noticed something else: The nighthawks weren’t alone up there. Wheeling and diving among them were smaller dark birds with cigar-shaped bodies and sharply pointed wings: Chimney Swifts. And then yet another player entered the scene: Medium-sized bats flickering across the darkening sky.

And even that wasn’t all. Zipping back and forth just above the rooftops was a swarm of large dragonflies, their stiff, direct flight contrasting vividly with the skidding style of the swifts, the bats’ sudden shifts in speed and direction, and the tilting swoops of the nighthawks.

What we were seeing, in eerie silence as the sun set, was a feast. A gathering of four insect-eating creatures that represented three different animal kingdoms while sharing the same goal: Finding enough food to survive the coming winter.

The nighthawks had the longest journey ahead of them. They spend the summers as far north as northern Canada, nesting on gravel beaches, rocky outcrops, and open patches in the forest. (And, at least historically, on flat gravel rooftops in towns and cities, though they can’t use modern rubberized roofs.)

Rarely seen in more than ones or twos for most of the year, Common Nighthawks can travel in loose flocks numbering in the hundreds—even thousands—during fall migration. Their destination: as far south as Argentina, a journey of nearly 7,000 miles.

Unlike nighthawks, Chimney Swifts are communal most of the year, roosting and nesting in colonies (most often in chimneys) and migrating in flocks as well. If you happen to live near a roost site, as we do, you may be lucky enough to see them spiraling in a tiny tornado above their chosen chimney, with some disappearing down it each time they circle around.

Our local roost had seemed almost deserted for a week or more, so the Chimney Swifts we saw from the middle of our street were likely migrants from further north. Like the nighthawks, they winter in South America (largely in the Amazon basin), a distance that can exceed 3,500 miles. It’s quite the trek for a bird that weighs less than an ounce!

We weren’t sure which of New York’s nine species of bats we were seeing, only three of which migrate for the winter. (The other six hibernate closer to home.) It was fascinating to watch the bats effortlessly shift their speed and direction as they foraged for insects we couldn’t see in the dusk. When I was a child, I could hear the high-pitched chitter of the bats’ sonar as they homed in on their prey. But now I had to be content with admiring their remarkable hunting technique in silence.

The most unexpected participants in the evening feast were the large dragonflies, which stayed lower than the other three. (Perhaps because Common Nighthawks and some bats eat dragonflies!) The ones we saw were almost certainly Common Green Darners, among only a few dragonfly species that migrate, often in impressive swarms.

Green Darners have a fascinating life cycle. These had been born in ponds and lakes in the Northeast and were heading to the warmer parts of North America for the winter, but that’s the only straightforward part of their journey.

Once they reach their winter homes, they’ll mate. The females will lay their eggs in ponds, and then all the adults will die. The aquatic nymphs that emerge from the eggs (fierce, wingless predators that bear little resemblance to the adults) will live in their ponds for months—sometimes years—before transforming into adults.

Green Darner Dragonfly. Photo: Atlas Obscura

Some of these new adults will then migrate back north. Others, though, will stay where they are, breeding, laying eggs, and dying, leaving it to the next generation to take the return journey. Regardless, the dragonflies that make the trip somehow know how to find their northern breeding grounds without ever having been there before.

Once arriving in our area, Green Darners will go through the same process: breed, lay eggs, die. The nymphs will hatch, and while some will stay in this form for a year, others will become adults the same summer to head back south.

Little Brown Bat flying. Photo: Jordi Segers/Canadian Wildlife Health Cooperative

Nighthawks, swifts, bats, and dragonflies differ in so many ways. But one thing unites them: Complex, infinitely challenging survival strategies whose success seems almost miraculous. Yet succeed they do, year after year, even in a world that seems ever harsher and more unwelcoming to them.

As we stood in the middle of the street, though, we weren’t thinking about any of this. Instead, we simply felt fortunate to witness the silent spectacle taking place above our heads. This stunning sunset dance, where each performer seemed to be attuned to an intricate melody they alone could hear, while we earthbound humans could only watch and marvel.

Birding

Teenager Season

SMRA August 15, 2023

From an amateur naturalist’s point of view, Croton Point Park isn’t at its best right now. The weather’s been hot and steamy (when it hasn’t been pouring); the RV lot, campground, and picnic areas have been jam-packed; and many of the birds, done with nesting, have fallen silent. Some have even left the park to begin their long journey south for the winter.

Even so, in some ways this is one of my favorite times to visit Croton Point. Why? Because it’s teenager season. No, I’m not talking about human teenagers (though there are plenty of them around these days), but about teenage birds. They’re all over! Wherever I look, I seem to see another young Robin, Catbird, or Song Sparrow landing on a branch or hopping across the grass.

How do you know when you’re seeing a young bird? Look closely and you’ll see that, just like human adolescents, they’re clumsy and unkempt. Their feathers are patchy, their movements uncertain. Sometimes they haven’t even grown a tail yet.

Another way to tell: If you watch for a minute, you may spot a parent bird or two somewhere near these awkward youngsters. And then you’ll notice that the adults look harassed, stressed, overworked.

Of course they do. They’re dealing with the scary challenges that parents of any species face as their children step into the wider world: Trying to protect them, teach them, and encourage them to be independent, all at the same time.

And time is short to accomplish all these tasks. Familiar species like Yellow Warblers, Baltimore Orioles, Bobolinks, and many others winter as far away as South America. They don’t arrive here until late April or May, and from the moment they touch down the clock is already ticking down to their departure south, which can start as early as late July.

Bobolink Flock

Photo: Gary Leavens

And they have a lot to do in that brief window: They have to pair up (very few songbirds mate for life), build a nest, produce and brood eggs, and tend to the helpless new chicks. By the time hatchlings are ready to leave the nest, there may be only a few weeks left before migration begins…and there’s plenty for the young birds to learn before they start their first long journey to their wintering grounds.

The instinct to migrate and some other crucial aspects of bird behavior—such as flying—are inborn, carried in the birds’ genes. But many other behaviors are learned. For example, in a process similar to our own, most songbirds learn their species’ language (their songs) by memorizing what the adults around them are saying. (Usually—again like human children—as they practice what they’ve heard, they’ll add variations to make it their own.)

Birds (mostly males but some females, too) have to know how to sing to establish and keep a territory, to attract a mate, and to bond with their mates. Singing is essential for the continuation of the species. But other learned behaviors are equally essential for a bird’s survival: Knowing what to eat (and what not to) and how to get hold of enough of it to survive.

Fledgling Blue Jays

Photo: Amy Lutz

That’s where the parent birds come in. Most of us have seen patchy young birds sitting on the ground or a branch, begging to be fed. Just as they did in the nest, they’ll call pathetically, flap their threadbare wings, and even chase their harried-looking parents around until the adult gives in and deposits a bug or seed into their gaping maws.

But even as they beg, teenage birds are also observing. Researchers studying Blue Jays, for example, have found that young birds carefully watch as their parents and other flock mates hunt for caterpillars, which to a jay can be either delicious and nutritious or prickly and toxic. Only by paying attention can the youngsters learn to avoid eating the wrong caterpillar and suffering unpleasant—and possibly dangerous—after-effects.

Young birds learning what to eat from their elders is a well-known behavior. Twice at Croton Point in recent weeks, though, I’ve witnessed something that seems much less thoroughly studied: Parent birds teaching their offspring how not to be eaten.

Crows mobbing a hawk

Photo: Phil Rowntree

Both times, my attention was first caught by loud, strident alarm calls, the kind little birds make when they’re mobbing a predator like a hawk, owl, or snake. Many songbirds will make loud, far-carrying raspy sounds, while others, like Chickadees (an angry “Chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee!”) sound their own distinctive alarms.

Regardless of the call, though, it always has the same meaning. Songbirds will come together to harass a predator (a behavior known as “mobbing”) for two connected reasons: To chase away the threat while simultaneously announcing to every bird within earshot, “There’s danger here!”

At Croton Point, the alarms were aimed at Red-tailed Hawks. Both times, the hawk was being harassed by at least a dozen different songbirds of several different species, including Baltimore and Orchard Orioles, Robins, Mockingbirds, Chickadees, and Titmice. And each time the mobs featured both adult birds and young ones who’d recently left the nest.

Baltimore Oriole and Red-tailed Hawk

Photo: Steven Smith.

I always enjoy watching songbird mobbing behavior. (It’s fun to see the underbird win out over the Big Bad for once.) Except one thing stuck out this time: At Croton Point Park, at least, these songbirds don’t usually mob the resident Red-tailed Hawks. They ignore them.

The reason for this typical unconcern seems simple: Although they do sometimes hunt birds (usually larger ones), Red-tails eat mostly good-sized mammals such as rabbits, squirrels, and voles. They’re not much of a threat to a little Chickadee or Titmouse, certainly not worthy of a large mob.

So what was going on here? Just another sign of the parent birds’ stress over being responsible for offspring that had only recently left the nest?

I don’t think it’s anthropomorphic to say that that was surely part of it. But to me it seemed like something else as well. I think that the grown-up birds were modeling crucial behavior for their young. “Big birds that look like this can hurt you,” they seemed to be saying. “But here’s something you can do that will help keep you safe.”

And, as a parent, an uncle, and a teacher and mentor to high-school students in the area, I got it. I really did. After all, isn’t this what we all hope to teach the vulnerable—and so often heedless—young people in our lives?

Wild Red Fox peeking around a tree in a forest

SMRA

Our Inner Landscapes

SMRA June 26, 2023

Grasslands. Mountains. Beaches. Arctic tundra?

Is there one kind of landscape that gets inside of you, that thrills or calms you more deeply than any other? One environment that best helps you escape from the stresses of life and find the solace that only nature can provide?

I imagine that most of us do have that kind of place. The more curious question is why. Why that landscape instead of any other?

I was pondering all this on Father’s Day as I walked a wooded trail in Croton Point Park. Thinking inevitably about my own father, Stanley Wallace, who introduced me to birding, who taught me to love nature and took me out exploring whenever he could.

Dad was a man who liked to have everything well organized, a lifelong New Yorker prone to wearing a dress shirt, tie, and sports jacket even on his days off. He moved, spoke, and wrote with precision and loved keeping careful lists of what he did.

Dad in non-swamp mode.

All of which now makes wonder why, amid all the earth’s beauty, his favorite places were wetlands. Specifically, Dad loved the biggest, muddiest, steamiest swamps and marshes he could find, along with all the scaly and slimy and slithery things that lived in them.

As I wrote here a few years ago, his favorite place on earth was Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge in Queens, which is filled with marshes and reed-fringed ponds. His favorite birds were herons, egrets, and ibises. He was a big fan of frogs and toads, and I always thought that if he could have planted weird swamp plants in our Brooklyn backyard (preferably carnivorous ones like Venus flytraps and sundews), he would have done so in an instant.

Great Egret in wetland. Photo: Madison Audubon

And it wasn’t just Jamaica Bay that spoke to him. When we went to Florida on vacation, we’d always include the Everglades, Corkscrew Swamp, or another dank and sticky stretch of southern wetland as a destination. Others’ memories of childhood vacations might be of theme parks or sandy beaches, but mine are of buzzing mosquitoes, muddy sneakers, and Roseate Spoonbills, Wood Storks, and the other bizarre birds that stalked the scummy ponds like miniature dinosaurs.

I loved those expeditions (my mom was less enthusiastic), but after all these years I have one regret about them. Even though I had countless chances to as we hiked and birded together, I never thought to ask Dad why he loved swamps and marshes so much. Why did he, such a fastidious man, feel such a deep connection to such spectacularly unfastidious places?

I have a theory about that. I’d like to believe that the very messiness of wetlands, the shagginess of his favorite birds, the sheer disorder of the scene, appealed to him. Dad was a physician and scientist whose career depended on his being exactingly precise—and is there anything less precise than a gulping frog, a mass of duckweed, or a croaking, flapping heron rising from the reeds? Maybe he craved an escape into disorganization after the rigors of his work.

Blue-winged Teal in wetlands. Photo: Scott Kinsey, Audubon Great Lakes Program

I missed the chance to ask Dad and find out for sure. But as I walked the other day, I realized that I don’t have to make the same mistake with others. Just ask! And, since I was alone on the trail, why not start by asking myself? So I did.

“Joe, what landscape speaks most deeply to you?”

“Hmmm…let’s see. Let me think. No, wait! I know this one! Pick me!”

The answer is forests. I love forests. Any kind will do, but I’m especially drawn to dense, crowded woodlands, places where you can follow a twisting thread of a trail and never know what you’ll come upon next. (When I’m fortunate enough to visit dense tropical forests, which teem with life, I feel like I’ve gone to heaven.)

The author in heaven (aka Guyana). Photo: Keith Bass

And my why? That’s easy, too: Unlike more open natural environments—beaches, mountains, and most wetlands—forests are filled with both mystery and discovery, with things that are hidden but can, with luck, be found. (Oceans and dense swamps are also rife with mysteries, but from the beach or trail most marine creatures and such swamp-dwellers as rails and bitterns stay hidden, out of reach.)

But forests? With every step, every glimpse of movement and mysterious call, they’re like treasure chests you’re always about to open. And if you don’t identify that call, see what was moving through the shadows? No problem. Take a few more steps and another mystery will be waiting for you.

And often enough the treasure chest does open, and you spot something special. Perhaps it’s a gorgeous warbler perched in a beam of sunshine on a bare branch, a red eft salamander glowing like an orange jewel on the path, a fox dashing across the path just in front of you. The possibilities are nearly endless, and every walk in every season reveals new mysteries, new treasures.

Black-throated Green Warbler. Photo: Steve Rappaport.

On my forest walks, I’m also always aware that I might meet something that will make my heart pound, like a bear, a bobcat, or a big snake. (I feel like the chance of such an encounter around every bend in the trail makes an expedition even more invigorating.)

These are all reason enough to claim forests as “my” landscape. But there’s something deeper at play, too. To me, exploring a patch of forest—even Croton Point Park’s scrubby, well-traveled woods—recaptures a little of what it must have felt like to live in an earlier century, to walk the earth before every last inch of it had been mapped and tamed. In a way that other landscapes don’t, forests allow me to feel like I’ve traveled back in time. It’s a feeling I can never get enough of.

So…that’s my inner landscape, and my why. Do you have one? If you do, I’d love to hear about it.

Birding/ SMRA

All Are Welcome Here

SMRA April 25, 2023

“What are you looking at?”

It’s a question I hear often during my walks in local parks and nature preserves. And that makes sense: After all, when I’m outdoors you’ll often find me peering through binoculars, staring at something invisible to casual passersby.

Almost always, my first response to the question is a pang of annoyance, which I try to keep hidden. Don’t they realize that I’m watching a bird here? Don’t they understand that I want to be left alone? Don’t they get it that I often come to the park just to avoid talking to anybody?

Well, no, they don’t. They haven’t thought about it as deeply as I have. They just want to find out what I’m looking at. So I take a deep breath, lower my binocs, and turn, often finding a young person or parent and child standing there. Sometimes it’s even a newbie birder, binoculars in hand.

I muster all the enthusiasm I can and point out what I’ve been focusing on. Perhaps it’s a Yellow Warbler singing from its scrubby perch, or a Great Blue Heron flapping overhead like an ancient pterodactyl, or a small flock of Purple Martins wheeling around their nesting gourds.

I always try to make the sightings come to life: I describe how Martins are completely dependent on the nesting sites that we build for them; how all living birds truly are dinosaurs, and herons certainly look the part; how Yellow Warblers are just one of the flood of spring migrants coming this way from as far away as South America.

As I talk, I find my enthusiasm becoming real. (Birds’ background stories are cool!) And almost always, my interest is matched by my listeners’. Often it turns out that they have their own nature stories to share, and I learn something from them, too. More importantly, we have a moment of connection before they walk on and I raise my binoculars again.

The author. “What are you looking at?”

Perhaps this all sounds obvious—of course you should share your enthusiasm with others—but the truth is, too often we birders don’t. Like me, many other birders value (even crave) the solitude, the silence, the undisturbed chase that birding can provide. Some also worry about the growing popularity of the pursuit, fearing that the arrival of hordes of newcomers will make favorite spots less enjoyable to visit. (It reminds me of Yogi Berra’s description of a newly popular nightclub: “Nobody goes there anymore—it’s too crowded.”)

So I know that I’m far from the only one to suppress a sigh when I’m approached by a curious stranger. And I confess that as I turn, putting a smile on my face, I sometimes wonder why I’m doing it. Why bother to give more than a polite but terse answer? Why disrupt my own experience—and maybe miss seeing a rare bird—to welcome an outsider into my world?

To me, there’s both a casual and a deep response to those questions. The casual one is, Why not bother? Is this world so filled with warmth and human connection that we should disdain the chance to add to it? Even if a listener doesn’t end up sharing my enthusiasm, I always feel better for having tried.

Honestly, I think this moment of connection is a good enough reason on its own. But the deeper one is even more important. Why bother? Because the future of our beloved local preserves—and all the world’s dwindling wild places—depends on it.

The future? How can that be? Let me give you just one example out of an unimaginable myriad from around the world: the grassland hill that is Croton Point Park’s most striking feature. Notoriously, that hill was once a toxic-waste dump, a Superfund site, an abandoned landfill. And even after it was capped, it remained a scrubby mass of weeds, invasive plants, and trash.

Today, though, it’s covered by native grasses and other plants that are exceptionally beautiful in every season. Crucially, the reclaimed habitat attracts threatened Bobolinks, American Woodcocks, and Grasshopper Sparrows, along with a host of butterflies, bees, dragonflies, and other plant, bird, and insect species whose grassland refuges elsewhere are vanishing at a frightening rate.

The transformation of a toxic dump into a welcoming grassland didn’t just happen. It took the concerted efforts of a host of individuals and organizations (including Saw Mill River Audubon) to turn the landfill into a place worth celebrating and saving. But the job isn’t done: Once reclaimed, it and other preserves don’t maintain themselves. Invasive plants and other threats are always encroaching, and conservation budgets are perennially skimpy.

So to me it’s simple: The fate of countless wild areas around the world depends not only on people like me, but on future generations of equally passionate advocates. And where will those advocates come from? Perhaps they’ll include some of those who are already interested enough to stop me and ask that tentative question: “What are you looking at?”

Of course, I never know what will happen after I show someone that Yellow Warbler, Great Blue Heron, or Purple Martin. Undoubtedly most people forget our little interaction before they even leave the park. But the idea that a few—or even one!—might take a deeper interest, become involved, fight, gives me hope for the future of our fragile planet. And hope is a precious thing…even if I have to miss a bird to experience it.

Backyard Habitats/ SMRA

Where Did You Go?

SMRA April 3, 2023

It was a cool but sunny day in mid-November. I was walking in Croton Point Park, taking in all the signs of winter coming: the fallen leaves, the silvery look the river gets at that time of year, the woods’ silence after migrating birds have already departed for warmer climes.

Then I noticed that some of the birds that do stick around all winter—chickadees and titmice—were kicking up a fuss in a nearby tree. The little birds were scolding something…but I could tell it wasn’t a hawk or owl. Instead of looking up into the branches, they were perched at eye level and staring down at the ground.

Following the direction of their angry gazes, I scanned around the base of the tree. It took me a minute or two to spot what was upsetting them, and when I finally did I was surprised: It was a beautiful young Milk Snake, a cold-blooded creature I’d assumed would have already been safely tucked away for the winter in some cave or woodpile. But here it lay, basking in the sun, seeming in no hurry to go anywhere.

As so often happens when something in nature surprises me, I went off to do some research. If snakes were still out in November, I thought, I clearly had something to learn about hibernation.

Turns out I had plenty to learn. I wasn’t even aware that only warm-blooded animals hibernate. Milk Snakes—and all other cold-blooded creatures—do something different: They brumate.

What’s the difference? At first glance, the two methods of surviving northern winters seem quite similar. In both cases, the animals’ breath, heartbeat, and metabolic systems slow down to just a fraction of their summertime rates. (Eastern Painted Turtles, for example, can reduce their metabolism by 99%, while their heart may beat just 8 times an hour.)

Mammals that hibernate, like Groundhogs, try to gain as much weight as possible before they settle down to sleep all winter. (Anyone who’s seen a nearly circular Groundhog in September already knows this.) Once they’re safely ensconced in their winter den, they slowly burn off their fat reserves, surviving till they emerge in spring and resume eating.

But cold-blooded creatures cannot gain massive amounts of weight as easily as warm-blooded ones, so they don’t have the option of sleeping through the winter. Instead, when a thaw comes, brumating animals wake up to eat, drink, and warm themselves in the sun. Then, when the cold descends again, they go back to their den and to sleep.

The need to be up and about, especially in a season with little undergrowth to hide in, leaves cold-blooded creatures like the Milk Snake more vulnerable than mammals to predators, extended cold snaps, and other threats. On the other hand, brumation does come with advantages, including at least one that seems hard to believe.

Take familiar reptiles like snapping and painted turtles. As winter approaches and ponds start to ice over, they’ll dive to the bottom and bury themselves in the mud, which remains unfrozen. There they go into a state of torpor—and stop breathing.

It’s true. Common Snapping Turtles, for example, can go for more than three months under water without taking a single breath. How on earth do they accomplish this feat? Part of reason is that being cold-blooded, their organs and other vital processes don’t require a steady stream of energy—and therefore large quantities of oxygen—to keep warm.

But they do require some fresh air from time to time. They obtain it via areas of their body where masses of veins lie close to the skin surface. These surfaces include the cloaca, the opening at the turtle’s rear where eggs are laid and waste expelled, and where special structures absorb the oxygen and transfer it to the animal’s bloodstream. (This technique, which allows the turtles to survive at the bottom of a pond, is called “cloacal respiration” or, more colorfully, “butt breathing.”)

When they become aware of a midwinter thaw, turtles wake up enough to rise to the surface, inhale some much-needed air the traditional way, and even find a rock or log and bask for a while in the sun. In this way, they and other brumating animals make it through the winter

I walked in Croton Point Park earlier today, as I do most days, but saw no snakes or turtles. Since the temperature reached fifty degrees, though, I have no doubt that somewhere nearby, snakes, turtles, frogs, and other cold-blooded creatures were already enjoying the warm sunshine just as much as I was. I can’t wait to encounter them along the trails again soon.

Birding/ SMRA

The Sentinel Butcher is Watching

SMRA February 23, 2023

As I stood alone in the trailhead parking lot in a remote corner of New York’s Fahnestock State Park on a bleak December day, I confess that I felt a little foolish. And I had reason to: I’d just made an hour’s drive—on a workday, no less—in search of one bird amid the vast expanse of fields and woods that surrounded me.

Just to be clear: I’m not talking about one bird species, but one single, solitary individual. And a pretty small one, too, about the size of a robin.

This kind of quest makes even an avid birder like me start to question his life choices. There were so many other, more productive things I could have been doing with my time. Writing. Seeing friends. Vacuuming the house.

But this, I’d told myself, was a bird worth breaking the rules for. It was a Northern Shrike, a rare winter visitor to the Northeast that had shown up in the area a few days earlier, and I’d never seen one.

Shrikes are among the coolest birds around. For their size and weight (the Northern measures just nine inches from head to the end of its tail and weighs about two ounces), they may be the fiercest predators on the planet, tiny but worthy descendants of the carnivorous dinosaurs that once dominated life on earth.

The 34 shrike species are found mostly in Eurasia and Africa, with only the Northern and its close cousin the Loggerhead living in North America. Wherever they’re found, though, shrikes are ferocious hunters who employ clever and creative methods not seen anywhere else in the bird world.

Shrikes’ unusual habits are even reflected in their Latin names. Both the family’s name (Laniidae) and the most dominant genus (Lanius) translate as “Sentinel,” marking the birds’ preference for perching at the tops of trees or bushes as they scan the surroundings for potential prey. And one Old World species—the Great Gray Shrike—has been named Lanius excubitor, which means “Sentinel Butcher.” It’s a vivid name that could be shared by many species, since it captures both the family’s patience and its ferocity so well.

It would be logical to expect birds the size of shrikes to “butcher” butterflies, crickets, and other small insects, but shrikes defy logic. Far from relying on mild-mannered little bugs for their diet, they attack and conquer larger creatures—including mice, voles, lizards, snakes, and larger birds—that can fight back with teeth, claws, and beaks.

Shrikes use a mix of stealth, craftiness, and a sentinel’s patience to take on such impressive prey. They are known to perch near well-used animal trails, waiting for the perfect moment to swoop down on an unsuspecting target. They’ll also hide near a larger bird’s nest, studying the parent birds’ habits. Having learned when the adults will be absent, a shrike can raid the nest and carry off a nestling without any fuss.

Shrikes also rely on a remarkable assortment of hunting techniques. For example, while they’ll use their beaks to snatch harmless insects, they’ll grab larger prey—such as a mouse—with their feet.

Shrikes don’t possess the powerful talons of hawks and eagles, which alone can disable a smaller creature. Instead, as a shrike grabs a mouse, it will bite down on the mammal’s spine just behind the head, causing immediate partial paralysis. (Flat, tooth-like projections on the shrike’s upper bill and corresponding indentations on the lower one act almost like tiny nutcrackers.) Then, once the mouse is paralyzed, the shrike will deliver the coup de grace, breaking its spine with a few ferocious shakes.

Having dispatched its prey, the shrike is confronted by a new problem. A whole mouse or vole is far too large to eat in a single sitting, but just leaving most of it behind would be wasteful. What to do?

The answer has made shrikes famous even among those with just a casual interest in birds. Northern Shrikes and other species will impale their recently deceased prey on a convenient thorn or barbed-wire fence. There the body remains, close at hand whenever the bird is feeling peckish. (This habit of hanging and “aging” their meat gives a new dimension to the birds’ reputation as butchers.)

That day in Fahnestock, I spent fifteen or twenty fruitless minutes wandering around, growing cold in the dimming afternoon light and feeling more and more foolish. Even vacuuming the carpets was beginning to sound appealing.

But then, just as I was about to give up, I spotted a tiny dark silhouette perched at the very top of a distant bare tree. Right away, I could tell by its posture, hooked beak, and black mask that it wasn’t a mockingbird, which can look quite similar at a glance. I’d finally seen my first-ever Northern Shrike.

It wasn’t, I had to admit, the most satisfying look, but it seemed like the best I was going to get. Yet again, though, my luck changed: As I began to turn away, the shrike decided it wanted to get a better look at me.

It flew to a closer tree, and then a closer one yet, and finally to the top of a tall bush no more than twenty feet from where I stood. From this vantage point, it stared at me with such focus and intensity that my jubilation faded, replaced by an unmistakable quiver of unease. Facing that unblinking gaze, I understood what it must feel like to have your measure taken by a creature that knows it is stronger, smarter, and better adapted than you are.

I stayed for several more minutes, but the unsettled feeling didn’t wane. And when I finally left, I found myself looking back over my shoulder once, then again. Each time, I saw that the shrike’s eyes were still following my every move. I felt very obvious, and very much alone, in that bleak landscape. Only when I was back in my car did the shrike fly back to the top of the distant tree.

Driving home, I felt the strangest mix of emotions, a combination of satisfaction and excitement and shakiness. Emotions that come back to me even now, as I write this.

Birding/ SMRA

The Prowler in the Backyard

SMRA January 30, 2023

My one and only encounter with a Bobcat took place many years ago and many miles away from my home in Westchester County, but it was such a vivid, unexpected experience that I know I’ll never forget it.

My wife and I were exploring Aransas National Wildlife Refuge (a sprawling reserve on the Texas Coast best known for the Whooping Cranes that winter there) when we saw two medium-sized mammals standing on the empty gravel road up ahead. At first glance, we thought that they were both White-tailed Deer, but a look through binoculars revealed something very different: A young White-tail buck facing off against a large, muscular Bobcat.

For minutes, the predator and its potential prey stood just a few feet apart, staring at each other. Then, finally, the Bobcat turned and—with the feline equivalent of a shrug—walked away without a backward glance. (And the buck? He was so filled with testosterone that when we drove up the road a few minutes later, he faced off against us, refusing to let us pass for several minutes!)

Ever since, my wife and I have hoped to see another Bobcat, just as many people we know have—including an increasing number here in Westchester. We haven’t yet…even though we’ve almost certainly walked past one of these medium-sized carnivores without realizing it. If you’ve gone for any long hikes in forested areas in recent years, you probably have, too.

It’s a wonderful fact that bobcats are thriving, both in New York’s forests and across much of the country. Researchers estimate that the total U.S. population is somewhere north of 3.5 million, an astonishing number for a predator in an increasingly built-up country. Even more encouragingly, Bobcats are still found in every state (as well as in southern Canada and northern Mexico), and numbers in most areas have been growing steadily since the 1990s.

There are a bunch of reasons why the Bobcat population is booming. Perhaps most importantly, until recent decades hunting them was not only legal, but encouraged: Some states even offered bounties for each one killed. Today, though the cats are still hunted or trapped in 38 states, seasons are carefully regulated and numbers kept under strict limits.

Just as importantly, Bobcats’ prey animals—including squirrels, rabbits, rats, and mice—are plentiful almost everywhere. All those creatures do very well in the kinds of environments humans create, including patches of forest, farmland, and larger wooded parks, which in turn attracts the stealthy animals that hunt them.

With so many Bobcats roaming around out there, it’s no wonder that sightings have increased greatly in suburban counties like Westchester. Yet even now, glimpsing one remains a thrilling surprise, because this is one animal that prefers to stay hidden. And when a Bobcat doesn’t want to be seen, it isn’t.

Even when you don’t spot one, though, you might come across other—very catlike!—signs that reveal the animals’ presence. For example, just as domestic cats do in a litter pan, Bobcats cover their scat with leaves, dirt, or snow. So if you find a fresh mound in your yard or beside a trail, usually with claw marks in the soil around it, you didn’t miss seeing a Bobcat by much.

Above tracks in scale to each other

These mounds, as well as scratches on the bark of tree trunks, serve as calling cards for Bobcats marking their territory. Like many other mammals, they rely on both scent and sight to announce, “I am here!” to potential competitors. Like domestic tomcats, the male cats also spray, leaving such a pungent odor that even humans can detect the calling card.

Another way that Bobcats mark their territories: By unleashing their guttural, haunting screams across the forest night. (I once heard one calling while staying in a lonely cabin in an untracked Vermont forest, and didn’t get much sleep for the rest of the night.

Bobcat Calls

Bobcats can be especially noisy during breeding season, which starts in midwinter and can last for several months. If you happen to see two Bobcats chasing, ambushing, or wrestling with each other (more catlike behavior), you’re probably witnessing a courting pair.

The cats’ preferred habitats include rocky slopes, rockpiles, ledges, and caves, all of which offer safety and the ability to see without being seen. These areas are especially prized during breeding season, when a female will build a warm, dry, and hard-to-find den amid the rocks or in a cave.

Here she will give birth to between one and five young. Like all cats, Bobcat kittens are born blind and helpless, completely dependent first on their mother’s milk and later on the meat she brings back from her hunts.

Finally, after about two months, the kittens will emerge from the den to begin the next stage of their education. Before then, though, their mother will have built several other dens in the vicinity. Once the young cats are out and about, these dens will help protect them from Coyotes, Golden Eagles, Great Horned Owls, and other powerful predators.

Like every creature in the world we humans have made, Bobcat populations still face some threats. Overdevelopment can drive away even this adaptable species. Collisions with vehicles take a toll, and diseases such as rabies, mange, and distemper, frequently spread by domestic animals, can also suppress Bobcat populations. But for now, the species is on an upward trajectory nearly all across its range.

As for my wife and me, we still haven’t seen a Bobcat since our encounter in Texas all those years ago. Even so, whenever we’re out walking in the woods, we hope to see a tawny form slipping away in the gloom…or even stopping to look back at us with golden eyes. Someday, we’re sure, we’ll have another encounter with the prowler in our backyard.

Birding/ SMRA

Wintersong

SMRA January 9, 2023

We’d been having typical early December weather in this part of New York: Cold and rainy some mornings, icy others, and always gray lawns and gray trees and gray skies under a heavy burden of clouds. And then, one day, I awoke to find the sky that crystalline deep blue we see every once in a while at this time of year. So I grabbed the chance and headed off to Croton Point Park.

I wasn’t surprised to find that I was far from the only living creature who seemed to appreciate the change in the weather. After days of hunkering down out of the rain, Red-tailed Hawks and Bald Eagles soared on the air currents rising from the park’s sunlit hill. Every stalk of mullein seemed to have a Song or Savannah Sparrow perched on it, regarding me with a bright eye, every patch of woods a busy assemblage of foraging chickadees, titmice, and other small songbirds.

I’d expected all this. But I also encountered something I hadn’t expected: birdsong. Lots and lots of birdsong. All over the park, common birds like Song Sparrows and Carolina Wrens were singing, but so were rarer, stealthier ones. Along one trail, a skulking Winter Wren let loose with its bubbly song, while out in a patch of scrub a gaudy red Fox Sparrow repeated its rollicking melody.

Most of us know why the avian chorus can be so deafening in the spring and early summer: Birds are establishing territories, finding mates, protecting their nest sites. Song is a way for the breeding birds (usually the males) to proclaim, “We’re here! Stay away!” But why were all these birds singing at in December, months from nesting season?

I decided to find out. And I discovered that there are almost as many reasons as birds. Song Sparrows, for example, have two motivations for singing at any time of year. One is that, while most birds repeat a single song, Song Sparrows can learn as many as 20 different melodies…and then compose 50 new variations for each one! They need a lot of practice before springtime rolls around.

But there’s another, more surprising reason why Song Sparrows sing in the winter. Unlike most species, they establish and defend territories all year long. What’s even more unusual, though, is that the sparrows don’t establish these territories alone or with a mate. Instead, they form a small team with one or two other birds, male or female, which researchers think may be siblings, cousins, or simply unrelated companions. One of the ways these little groups defend their off-season territories is through song.

With Carolina Wrens, the answer is simpler: This is a species that usually mates for life and maintains the same territory all year. Again, singing is an essential part of both the pair-bonding and territory-defending process. That’s why, even on snowy days in the depths of winter, you can hear the male and female’s loud, cheerful “Teakettle! Teakettle!” duets.

So that’s two species’ vocal behavior explained. But how about the Winter Wren and Fox Sparrow? Turns out that’s more mysterious.

Starting in the spring, a male Winter Wren will go through a very labor-intensive courtship process. He’ll claim a territory and then proceed to build several different nests on it, sometimes as many as half a dozen. When a female enters his territory, he’ll sing from an exposed perch, do a little courtship dance, and then show her all his nests, inviting her to choose the one she likes best. But he has no special reason to be singing where he spends the winter.

Fox Sparrow. More here from Cornell Lab of Ornithology’s All About Birds website

Fox Sparrows are known to be early songsters…but in this case “early” means late January and February, when spring is at least on the distant horizon. At that time, they’ll be joined by other species that, spurred by the lengthening days and gradually warming weather, are also getting their pipes ready for nesting season. But this is still way too early for that.

So what was going on during my wintersong-filled walk at Croton Point? No doubt there’s some scientific answer to this question, but I couldn’t find it. So I’m choosing to believe instead that, after so many cold and rainy days, the Fox Sparrow, Winter Wren, and other birds were simply happy to find themselves in golden sunlight under a beautiful blue sky.

And when you’re happy, what better way is there to show it than to sing?

Birding/ SMRA

Tumult Season

SMRA October 9, 2022

Until recently, I used to think that the seasons changed in relatively orderly fashion. People would complain that summer had hung on too long, or fall came too early, or winter felt like it was lasting forever…but it was all based on the concept that one season was supposed to follow the next as predictably as the shortening and lengthening of the days.

But now I know the truth: In reality, the change of seasons is about as orderly as the Times Square subway station at rush hour. It’s helter-skelter, pell-mell, filled with energy and confusion and the hectic business of going places. I’ve begun to think that it deserves a name of its own: Tumult Season.

This all came clear to me just a few days ago, when I played hooky from work to take a four-hour “deep dive” walk through Croton Point Park. Blue Jays gave me my first clue.

All About Birds: Blue Jays

Blue Jays are around pretty much all year, flying in small, unruly flocks from here to there, unleashing their repertoire of raucous calls to make sure you notice them. In this season, though, they gather in vast numbers, hundreds upon hundreds in all corners of the park.

And they don’t just gather: If you’re lucky and keep your eye on the skies, you might get the chance to witness one of the great spectacles of Tumult Season: The high, pinwheeling flights of the Blue Jay flocks. The birds whirl and soar by the dozens—sometimes even hundreds—glowing white and blue in the sunlight. It’s a magical sight, even more so because these typically noisy birds carry out their great flights in near complete silence.

But the jays weren’t alone in teaching me to look at the change of seasons in a different way. During my walk, I was also lucky enough to spot some birds that nested in our area but will spend the cold-weather months far to our south. The tiny, colorful Magnolia Warbler I found in a small brushy tangle, for example, will winter in the Caribbean and Central America. And the American Redstart I saw fluttering around in an oak tree will soon embark on a journey that may take it as far as Venezuela or Colombia.

All About Birds: American Redstarts.

I loved seeing these little gems, as well as vireos, flycatchers, and other soon-to-be-southbound migrants. But not every bird at Croton Point is getting ready for a long journey: Other species, having just arrived from their nesting grounds far to our north, plan to stick around. In fact, at the same moment that so many species are heading for warmer climes, birds like the sparrow-sized American Pipit choose Croton Point as their “warm weather” winter home.

I found a flock of Pipits walking in a tight group across a lawn near the park entrance. As I watched, the birds took flight, bobbing and weaving in the air like living popcorn and letting loose with the sweet “Pi-pit! Pi-pit!” calls that give the species its common name.

All About Birds: American Pipits

American Pipits nest in the Arctic tundra, high-mountain meadows, and other barren landscapes where the only vegetation is grass and low shrubs. Such areas quickly become snow-covered during the winter, conditions too harsh even for the intrepid Pipits. The birds move south, but clearly prefer to spend the winter in habitats that remind them of their summer homes, such as Croton Point Park’s lawns and fields.

And it’s not just warblers and pipits that show us that we’re in the midst of Tumult Season. American Kestrels flutter everywhere over the hill, contending for a perch on one of the poles that dot the grassland. Ospreys, preparing for migration flights that might take them as far south as Brazil, hurry back and forth from Haverstraw Bay, fish clutched in their talons. Blackbirds fill the bare trees. And Savannah, Swamp, and other sparrows seem to rise from the grasses like seeds being scattered by the wind.

Croton Point Grassland. Photo: Joe Wallace

But it was the last bird I saw that left the deepest impression on me. I was heading for the park entrance when I saw an adult Bald Eagle flying over. As anyone who’s ever spent time at Croton Point knows, eagles are common in the park at all times of year. But this one was different from the others I’ve seen recently: It was carrying a large stick, almost a whole branch, towards a patch of forest.

Watching it, I realized that it had already started to tend to the nest that would host its new brood of nestlings next year. That eagle knew that Tumult Season never ends, and now I do, too.

Birding/ SMRA

Still Magical After All These Years

SMRA July 26, 2022

Like most of us, I loved watching fireflies as a child. During long summer evenings, those tiny flashing creatures were fairytale magic made real. And, like the wild blackberries we feasted on, the shrilling of the cicadas in the trees, and the Monarch caterpillars we found all over the milkweed near our house, they were a reassuring sign that fall—and school—were still far away and could be safely ignored.

But unlike most of us, I wasn’t satisfied with just watching fireflies for that brief stretch after dark before bedtime. I wanted the spectacle to last all night. So one evening when no one was looking, I smuggled a jarful of them into my bedroom and set the little insects free. Then I turned out the lights, hopped into bed, and waited for the light show to begin.

The Right way to Catch Fireflies

Fifteen minutes later, my mom came in to wish me good night. I will leave to the imagination her reaction to finding my walls covered in disgruntled—and resolutely unlit—fireflies. I stayed up much later than usual that night, but only until I caught every last one and released it safely back into the wild.

Even though I no longer want to bring fireflies indoors, I still find them as magical as I did as a child. And I’m thrilled when (as has happened this year) the woods and parks seem filled with them, countless individuals rising at dusk from the grass and gardens of my yard, neighbors’ lawns, and nearby parks.

This year’s show inspired me to spend some time learning about the odd little creatures that light up our midsummer evenings. As always seems to be the case with nature, what I’ve found out has been far more fascinating than I ever could have predicted.