Saw Mill River Audubon – Page 2 – Connecting People and Nature Since 1953

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.

Listening to Nature

SMRA June 24, 2022

Many years ago, I had the privilege of birding with Ted Parker, perhaps the single greatest field biologist ever to specialize in the birds of the American tropics. How talented was Ted at finding and identifying birds? During his much-too-short life, major universities and environmental organizations would send him—alone—into some untracked section of steamy Brazilian rainforest or forbidding Colombian mountain scrub. Weeks later he’d re-emerge, knowing exactly what birds lived there…including many species never before identified by science.

Ted’s secret: Listening. Wherever he went, before he’d even raise his binoculars, he’d stop and focus on every song and call he could hear. He was so good at it that he could recognize and ID as many as 4000 species by sound alone, most instantly.

More about Ted Parker

That’s astounding, but how did it help Ted find so many species that were new to science? Because, of course, it allowed him to recognize when he didn’t know a song or call. And if he didn’t know a bird, likely no scientist did, either.

The chorus in a rainforest can be a cacophony, much of it made by the most common birds in the area. I asked Ted how he managed to hear the frequently quiet and reclusive rare and undiscovered species. He thought for a moment and then said, “Here’s how: I’ve learned to listen beyond the familiar, loud ones. Once I do that, it’s like those songs disappear, and then I can hear everything else that’s out there.”

He grinned at me. “Try it! It’s such a fun challenge.”

We all have our own definitions of fun, and for many years I was too intimidated to even try birding by ear. (After all, I’m no Ted Parker.) But in the past few years I’ve started to follow his lead.

Listen to a Carolina Wren.

And you know what? He was right! Birding by ear is fun. Even more importantly, it can bring you into far closer contact with with the activities of birds and other creatures, with the whole natural world, than using your eyes alone. To me, there’s something deeply moving, even beautiful, about the experience.

As Anne Swaim, SMRA’s Executive Director, says, “Tuning into the ever-changing soundscape of birds arounds us is a connection to the progression of seasons and the health of habitats. We can know when and where we are by the sounds of birds.”

That’s it exactly. When I step out of the car at Croton Point Park these days and start to listen, I immediately feel grounded both in the place and the season. Right away I hear Robins singing, Mockingbirds mocking, Song Sparrows announcing their presence seemingly from every bush and mullein stalk. All of them are proclaiming their territories, which in this season likely contain nests with eggs or young.

Once you’ve come to know those familiar sounds, though, you start to hear others. What’s that throaty chirping? The Purple Martins that live in those gourd-shaped “condos” near the park’s front gate. That hoarse, high-pitched scream? One of the Red-tailed Hawks that have been raising their young here. That odd, tinkly song (it almost sounds computerized) that rings out over the grassland hill? That’s a male Bobolink—one of the park’s special birds, here because the old landfill was turned into a grassland—defending its territory.

Listen to a Bobolink

I could go on like this forever, but I won’t. My point is that once you hear the calls, you can find the source: Iridescent Purple Martins swooping around, a young Red-tail still begging Mama for food, the strange and gorgeous Bobolink engaging in its fluttering display flight over the grasses. Soon you recognize sound, sight, and behavior, and that allows you to start to know both the bird and the place where the bird lives.

But it gets even better. Because, just like Ted Parker, you start to hear things you don’t know, and that’s where the extra fun begins. Just recently, my familiarity with local bird songs and calls allowed me to find two species that were new to me in the park. And I began to understand the thrill Ted must have felt when he first heard—and then tracked and saw—something new.

The first time was a few weeks ago. I was up in the woods and lawns beside the model-airplane field. Baltimore Orioles, Cardinals, and ever-present American Robins were raising their usual ruckus, but then I heard something unfamiliar.

It was a loud, repetitive song that sounded like “Free Beer! Free Beer!” (That pleasing offer is how it’s often transcribed.) I knew from its tone that it was likely a flycatcher…but because I’m familiar with the calls of the park’s nesting Great Crested Flycatchers and other common species, I guessed this was something I hadn’t heard here before.

Soon enough, I caught a glimpse of the bird and figured out that it must be an Alder Flycatcher. I was nervous about this ID (flycatchers are hard!) and grateful for confirmation by some more experienced “birders by ear” who happened to be nearby. But even if I’d never been sure of my ID, it was a thrill hearing and then seeing such a special, unusual bird nearly in my own backyard.

Listen to an Alder Flycatcher.

Then, more recently, I was walking in the park near sunset when I heard a loud, harsh call coming from the phragmites marsh on its east side. Again, I noticed the sound among many others because I hadn’t heard it there before…and this time, a little bit of research let me know I was listening to a Green Heron.

I didn’t even see the bird, but I didn’t care. How cool to learn that this colorful, frequently shy little heron can call Croton Point Park home!

There are phone apps to help you identify what you’re seeing and hearing, just as there are apps for everything else. Merlin, perhaps the most famous, recently debuted a Sound ID feature, and it’s pretty impressive. Just turn on the microphone, hold up your phone, and watch the bird names appear: American Robin, Yellow Warbler, Northern Mockingbird, etc.

[Learn more about the free Merlin bird ID app.]

But there’s a risk in relying too heavily on sound apps. First of all, they can be flamboyantly wrong. Just a few days ago at Croton Point, Merlin listened to the same singing bird and alternately identified it as a Chipping Sparrow (a regular nesting species in the park) and as a Worm-eating Warbler, which would be a real rarity.

(Spoiler: It was a Chipping Sparrow.)

But inaccuracy isn’t the most important reason to use apps sparingly. To me, they miss the point, since the minute you’re using an app, you’re just staring at your phone again, letting it do the listening and thinking for you.

To my mind, that defeats the central purpose of getting out in nature, in looking and listening and—if you’re inclined to—trying to learn what it is you’re seeing and hearing. The point isn’t just about identifying things, but feeling closer to the world they and we live in. To take the opportunity to leave technology behind, just for a little while, and just be where you are. As the saying goes: Only connect—and that means with your environment, too.

I hope to see you out on the trails someday soon. I’ll be the guy with his binoculars around his neck, the one gazing into space, head a little cocked as he listens intently to something even though he’s not even wearing Air Pods.

Maybe you’ll look a little like that, too, and we can listen to nature together.

Birding/ SMRA

They Were Here First

SMRA May 1, 2022

My friend Keith lives in Bedford, on property that’s been in his family for generations. Over the years, he’s seen turkeys, coyotes, foxes, and of course a million deer. But when he went outside one night recently and spotted a large, hulking shadow behind his house, he thought his eyes must be playing tricks on him. Experience told him that nothing in his neighborhood could be that big.

But then he turned on his phone’s flashlight and found out that you can’t always trust experience. The shadow resolved into a large Black Bear, the first he’d ever seen there. It lumbered away at once, leaving unanswered the question of whose heart was beating faster.

Keith is far from the only Westchester County resident to encounter a bear so close to home. In just the past year, reports of wandering Black Bears have come in from Chappaqua, New Castle, Armonk, and other nearby towns.

And it’s not just Westchester, but across New York, the Northeast, and much of North America. Just recently in California, for example, a Lake Tahoe family, having been bothered for months by mysterious “snoring” noises inside their house, finally discovered the cause: a mother bear and her four yearling cubs who’d spent the winter snoozing in the basement!

If it seems like bears are popping up—or ambling around—nearly everywhere these days, that’s because they are. Black Bear populations have grown significantly in recent decades across North America, and experts estimate that as many as 900,000 bears inhabit the United States and Canada. In many areas, there are now three or four times as many bears as there were just forty years ago…and while nearly a million chipmunks or squirrels might be able to stay hidden, the same isn’t true for creatures that can stand six feet tall and reach 600 or more pounds in weight.

Why are there so many more bears today? The answer reveals a rare environmental success story involving—as so many such stories do—us humans changing the way we act to the benefit of the creatures we share the land with.

Before Europeans arrived, the Northeastern landscape was largely forested. Indigenous people cleared trees only modestly, and both their villages and cultivation were designed to avoid making major changes in the environment. They and Black Bears, which relied on undisturbed woodlands, were able to coexist.

The colonists, however, clearcut the forests both for lumber and to make room for dairy and other farms. By the mid-19^th century only about a quarter of the Northeast’s original forest cover remained, and populations of bears, deer, and countless other species were vanishing along with the trees. If these circumstances had continued, the Black Bear would likely have become extinct across large parts of its range.

bears-with-bird-feeders-Joel-Rhymer-1-free-to-use

Fortunately, things changed just in time. With the building of the railroads and the availability of seemingly unlimited fertile land in the Midwest and beyond, vast swathes of Northeastern farmland were abandoned. Over the decades, these fields and pastures were gradually reclaimed by forest, and populations of Black Bears and other animals rebounded as well.

Humans also took a more active role to protect the species. For centuries, Black Bears were freely shot for their meat, fat, and fur, and because they were considered a nuisance or danger. Starting in the early 20^th century, though, a series of laws were passed to regulate bear hunting in New York, and most other states as well.

Today, the combination of healthy bear numbers and the building of new houses and condos in previously forested land has made human-bear interactions inevitable. Also inevitable: That when they do happen, we’ll all hear about it on the local news and social media.

Even with the rising number of encounters, the number of bear attacks on humans remains extremely low. But they do occur: Since 1900, roughly one person has been attacked by a Black Bear somewhere in the United States each year, with a death resulting about every other year. Those numbers are both likely to rise. So, despite the low risk, given that bears’ size and strength, and the fact that females with cubs can be notoriously testy, it’s best to know what to do if you come face-to-face with one.

Most importantly, be alert and use your common sense. Try to spot a bear when you’re still a healthy distance away—and then don’t run towards it waving your camera because you want to post a great pic on Instagram. If one does seem interested or aggressive, don’t run away, either: Stand your ground, make yourself seem bigger by waving your arms, and make a lot of noise. The bear is extremely likely to depart as fast as it can in the other direction.

For a deeper dive, here’s a useful rundown from the Humane Society:

But all the good advice on earth goes out the window if, like Keith, you simply step out your own back door and find a bear standing there. It’s far better to try to avoid this heart-thumping experience entirely, which you can do with a little smart planning.

Nearly all wandering Black Bears fall into one of two categories: young, newly independent individuals looking for territories of their own and adult males on the hunt for mates. Since neither mates nor territory are likely to exist in your backyard, the bears will want to pass through as quickly as possible—unless, of course, you invite them to stay for dinner.

To a bear, birdseed and suet in feeders, poorly maintained compost bins, haphazardly covered garbage cans, and the aromas and food scraps from a barbecue grill all have the appeal of an all-night diner to a hungry traveler. So it’s best to take a few precautions and make sure your diner is closed to any bears that may wander through.

I think it’s a very hopeful sign for the future that Black Bears and other predators (including Coywolves, Bobcats, and Red Foxes) are surviving—and even thriving—in this crowded region. But, like every wild creature in the world we’ve made, bears depend on us to understand what they need and what they don’t. Through our actions, we’ll decide if our two species will continue to coexist peacefully, or if we’ll again drive these magnificent creatures off the land they inhabited long before we got here.

by Joseph Wallace
Copyright © 2022

Birding/ SMRA

Dance of the Timberdoodle

SMRA March 28, 2022

It’s the beginning of courtship season for the birds around here. The signs are everywhere: in the Mourning Dove’s puffed-up strut, the way Common Grackles and Red-winged Blackbirds seem to inflate themselves as they emit their raucous calls, the flood of birdsong we hear each dawn.

Among some exotic species—Birds of Paradise, Peacocks, cranes, and others—courtship rituals can be so dazzling that birders journey halfway around the world to see them. Most of our local birds’ displays, on the other hand, are comparatively subdued.

Most, that is, but not all. There is one memorable performance taking place right now nearly in our backyards: the sky dance of the male American Woodcock. Yet most people, including many who love birds, not only miss this show, but don’t even know it’s taking place. That’s because the birds dance only at and after dusk and for just a few brief weeks each spring.

Their courtship rituals aren’t the only memorable thing about Woodcocks. From their appearance to the way they move, everything about them is odd, ungainly, and appealing. This even includes the folk names they’ve acquired over the years: Timberdoodle, Bogsucker, Big-eye, Mudbat, and Night Partridge, among others.

Inhabiting the eastern half of the United States, Woodcocks are actually sandpipers, though you’ll almost never see one on a beach or mudflat. They have have vivid russet-and-brown plumage with crosswise black stripes across the top of the head like a balding man’s combover. They’re shaped roughly like a football…except a football doesn’t come equipped with a long, straight bill.

The bill’s resemblance to a straw most likely gave rise to the name “Bogsucker,” but the birds actually use it to probe the ground for earthworms (their favorite food) and other invertebrates. The end of the bill is flexible and comes equipped with sensitive nerve endings and rough edges, ideal adaptations for locating and snagging unseen prey.

Another part of the Woodcock’s hunting technique is especially odd and endearing. You may see one walking with an odd, stop-and-go stride, rocking back and forth and occasionally stomping a foot. What it’s doing is striking the ground and then listening for the sound of worms fleeing the vibrations. This form of sonar helps the bird strike accurately with its well-equipped bill. [View this Woodcock walk in the video below.]

Everything about the Woodcock is offbeat. But nothing can match the spectacle of the males’ courtship displays, the evening “sky dances” a lucky observer can listen to—and sometimes even watch—in this season.

Local parks and almost any area that features untended clearings—grassy roadsides, unmowed fields and pastures, openings within a forest—can make an acceptable staging ground for amorous Woodcocks. Here, as the light begins to fade, a male will begin his performance by making a far-carrying call, a loud, nasal “PEENT!” The best way to find a displaying male is to listen for and locate this call.

After several “PEENTS”, the bird will suddenly vault into the air and fly upwards at an astonishing speed. It’s breathtaking to watch one hurtle as much as 300 feet into the darkening sky, looking like an unlit firework or punted football. As the bird ascends, it makes wild twittering sound, which is not song but results from air rushing through specially adapted feathers on the bird’s wings.

At the crest of its ascent, a male Woodcock may hover or fly in a tight circle for several seconds. Then it will spiral or zigzag back to the ground, this time accompanying itself with musical chirps. The goal is to land beside an interested female, but regardless the Woodcock can continue its energetic ritual for an hour or more—or even, on moonlit nights, all night long.

Except in the dancing season, Woodcocks can be extremely difficult to find. They migrate at night, sleep during the day, and nest on the ground, usually in young forests where few humans or other large animals are likely to disturb them.

The best time of year to encounter one—or even a displaying ground full of them—is right now. To me, it’s always worth a special trip (and even a delayed dinner) for the opportunity to witness the magical nighttime dance of the Timberdoodle.

By Joseph Wallace

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Birding/ SMRA

Doorway to a Better World

SMRA March 12, 2022

As a nature writer, I’ve spent much of my life traveling the U.S. and beyond. Almost always, my goal has been to visit the world’s remaining untouched forests, deserts, and mountains, and then tell others about what survives there, the threats they face, and our critical responsibility to preserve what’s left.

It’s been a fulfilling and fortunate career. And it all began with a tinfoil baking pan!

Black-capped Chickadee

The spring I turned fifteen, I decided that I wanted to set up a bird feeder in our postage-stamp backyard in Midwood, Brooklyn. I can’t quite recall where I got the idea, but my family couldn’t have been surprised. I’d been mad about nature since I was little, always pushing my parents to take me to the American Museum of Natural History or the Bronx Zoo and reading every book I could find on exotic travel and adventure.

But this was different than books or museums. This was real.

Almost immediately, I hit my first roadblock: We didn’t own a birdfeeder, and I was too broke to buy one. An intensive hunt through the house for a good substitute (my mom’s jewelry box? perhaps not) eventually turned up a solution: One of the 9×13 tinfoil pans I found in a kitchen cabinet.

I don’t remember asking permission to take it. I imagine I realized, correctly, that by the time I’d punched holes in its sides, strung it with rope, hung it from the magnolia tree in our yard, and filled it with birdseed, no one would want to serve a pot roast in it.

I have to admit that I didn’t expect it to attract much beyond pigeons, starlings, House Sparrows—typical city birds. After all, our backyard was not only tiny but placed right in the middle of one of the biggest cities on earth. Even if migrating birds did fly overhead, how on earth were they ever going to spot one little tinfoil pan far below?

For the first few days, it seemed like I’d been right to keep my expectations low. The feeder was deserted when I headed off to school and untouched when I got home in the afternoon. I decided that I might as well have dug a pit in the lawn to try to catch a tiger.

Then one day I gave a cursory glance out the back window and saw two hefty Mourning Doves lounging comfortably in the feeder as they dined. (This dove habit forced me to repeatedly push the dented bottom of the pan back into shape.) Next came a small flock of White-throated Sparrows eating the seed the doves had scattered on the grass, and soon cardinals, juncos, Song Sparrows, and others were also regular visitors.

White-throated Sparrows

But what most amazed me then—and still astounds me today—was how many insect-eating birds visited our yard that spring without even going near the feeder. My final list included nine species of warblers (including Black-throated Blue, Parula, and Wilson’s), Hermit, Wood, and Olive-backed (now known as Swainson’s) Thrushes, Brown Thrasher, Rufous-sided Towhee, and several others.

It seemed miraculous that these birds, looking down as they flew over, had spotted the birds gathered at the feeder. And then, knowing it was a safe place to rest and search for insects to eat, they chose to descend—into my yard!—and stay a few hours or overnight before heading north once again.

My yard list

Far more than any book, TV show, or museum, my encounters with those tiny travelers taught me an enduring lesson about the world: That everything in it is connected. Looking out my back window, I understood for the first time that a vast river of birds flows across our skies every spring and fall. It’s made up of billions of birds that depend on oases along the way to survive, oases as small as a patch of green in the midst of a giant urban sprawl.

I learned something else that spring. I understood that I had a role to play in making sure that river always flowed. I had to share what I’d learned, to work to preserve not only those fragile, precious migrating birds, but their whole vulnerable world that existed far beyond my backyard.

A female Northern Cardinal, Blue Jay, and male Northern Cardinal at a feeder

I’d been wondering why my memories of that long-ago spring have returned so vividly in recent months, and I think I’ve figured it out: Because in recent years feeding the birds has become an increasingly controversial topic.

Perhaps inevitably, the anti-feeder voices have risen in response to a surge in enthusiasm for birdfeeders, and birds overall, in the wake of pandemic lockdowns. Seeking something new to focus on while stuck at home, millions of people across the world set up feeders and started paying attention to what showed up there.

The objections take a variety of shapes. Some people worry that feeders won’t be kept clean, which can actually spread disease among visiting birds. (Click here for instructions on how to keep your feeder safe for them.) But other objections are on more philosophical grounds, based on the principle that “we need to let nature fend for itself” and stop “interfering.”

I understand stand such feelings, but I’m sure it’s clear that I take a more nuanced view. A feeder that supports little more than those invasive pests, House Sparrows, is doing more harm than good. But I believe that a carefully maintained winter feeder stocked with seeds that will attract native songbirds (like safflower, appealing to native species but not to most invasive ones) may be crucial to the future of the planet.

Photo: https://www.thisoldhouse.com/yards/21016361/how-to-build-a-bird-feeder

Crucial? How can that be? I think the answer comes from my own experience, my belief that feeders can open the same door to nature for today’s young people—actually, people of any age—that they opened for me. In fact, I believe they have to. I have a loud voice, but however much I write, talk, or agitate, endangered habitats and their inhabitant will never survive unless countless others connect with the wider world around them, just as I did decades ago.

My communities today (both live and online) are filled with people who already understand what needs to be done to protect both local birds and the world’s dwindling wild places. We must plant native gardens to attract pollinators, join—or start—groups to work with and lobby local officials, give financial support to organizations that do the same on an international scale, and so much more.

But our knowledge and commitment had to come from somewhere, and that is just as true in our increasingly urbanized world today. What about those who don’t yet understand the challenges ahead? Who don’t have spacious yards to fill with pollinator plants? Who aren’t fortunate enough to have the funds to support environmental organizations, or the time and access to learn more about what needs to be done?

Photo: https://www.pbs.org/parents/crafts-and-experiments/how-to-make-a-plastic-bottle-birdfeeder

Finding new ways to overcome these challenges, to educate and involve those who may be hard to reach, is essential. In the meantime, though, there’s one thing most people already do have: A windowsill or a nearby patch of green—however small—where they can place a birdfeeder…and then watch some of nature’s wonders come to them. This simple interaction might just spur them to fight the important battles to come, as it did for me.

And if they don’t happen to have a feeder? No problem at all. Any old tinfoil tray—or a plastic bottle!—will do.

By Joseph Wallace
Copyright © 2022

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