Last week, after speaking at the monthly meeting of Flathead Audubon (see post “Birding with the President”), I spent the night with my gracious hosts, Darcy and Rob Thomas, and rose at 5 a.m. for a birding excursion to Glacier National Park. Powered by an egg and sausage burrito from City Brew, I made it to the park by 7:00 and rumbled and bumped my way up Inner North Fork Road. Braden, Nick Ramsey, and I had been here only five weeks before on a quest to find me a Lifer Spruce Grouse, and guess what? I was still on that quest! Today, though, I decided to try a different route, the Camas Creek Trail that leads east toward the heart of the park. I arrived to find the little parking area totally empty and, after strapping on my fanny pack, and slinging my camera and binoculars over my shoulders, set out under a dawn sky.
Sunrise at Camas Meadow. Need I say more?
Entering a patch of woods, I walked quietly and raised my senses to full alert. I didn’t want to scare away a Spruce Grouse along the trail, but I also wanted to spot a grizzly bear before it spotted me! Of course, park officials recommend hiking noisily to alert bears to your presence, but for birders this obviously is a counterproductive strategy. Bear spray would probably have been a good idea, but as usual I forgot to bring any. Within a quarter mile of the trailhead, however, I got a good scare.
I was rounding a bend with some trees on the right when suddenly a large shape launched from a branch and spread enormous gray wings. Owl! my brain shouted as my heart hammered, but which kind? The park contained only two large-owl possibilities: Great Gray and Great Horned. I hurried forward, trying to see where it was headed, but failed miserably. Without ever facing toward me, it disappeared through some trees, never to be seen again. My gut and the length of the owl’s wings tells me it was a Great Gray Owl but I will never know. Sigh.
After that startling start, my hike settled down. I reached Camas Meadow just as the sun began peeking over the Continental Divide and savored being absolutely alone in one of the world’s most beautiful places. I got here so early that the birds were off to a slow start. I saw a few flitting around, and Merlin’s Sound ID feature informed me that they were Pine Siskins and Yellow-rumped Warblers. It also told me that the chickadees I was hearing were Mountain Chickadees. Other than that, the action languished.
Despite this rather poor image, one of the highlights of my Camas Meadow trail hike was the abundance of Yellow-rumped Warblers fattening up for migration.
Fortunately, that held true on the grizzly bear front, too. I passed some scat, but it looked like black bear poop (smaller, full of berries, less messy), and was old to boot. In fact, I passed few fruiting plants relative to other places I’d recently visited in western Montana—a fact that might bode poorly for possible grouse sightings.
I hiked for about two, two-and-a-half miles, before pausing for a drink of water and, reluctantly, turning around. Fortunately, as I began retracing my route, rising temperatures seemed to lead to greater bird activity. Most impressive were the number of Yellow Warblers. I tallied at least 30, but am sure I undercounted. Their chips sprung from many locations, and I also spotted a couple of Ruby-crowned Kinglets (one boldly displaying its red crown), Dark-eyed Juncos, and Pine Siskins. An occasional Northern Flicker called sharply overhead.
I was surprised to spot this Red-naped Sapsucker in Glacier. I hadn’t realized they hung around Montana quite so long!What would the world be like without Northern Flickers? Not a place I want to live in!
About halfway back to the car, I saw a small brown bird flitting about in a bush. Its furtive skulking behavior distinguished it from the other birds I’d been seeing, so I stopped and raised my binoculars, waiting for a clear look. It took a few moments, but it finally showed itself—a Lincoln’s Sparrow! One day, Braden and I will have to list our Top 10 Favorite Sparrows, but for me, Lincoln’s is Number One. Not only does it display a gorgeous, subtle color palette, it seems to have a more curious, delightful nature than other sparrows. When Braden and I began birding almost a decade ago, a Lincoln’s Sparrow was the first sparrow that really made a big impression on me. We devoted several outings to the chase before finally seeing one, so maybe its uncommonness also has something to do with my ranking.
This delightful Lincoln’s Sparrow captured “Bird of the Hike” honors for my visit to Camas Meadow.
After spending a few minutes with Mr. Lincoln’s, I continued hiking. A Red-naped Sapsucker surprised me. Then, I heard a series of eerie whooping noises that reminded me a bit of an Osprey. “What the heck?” I muttered. Then I saw it: a Canada Jay swooping in for a landing high in a nearby tree. A couple of other CAJAs also appeared. The jays, one of my favorite corvids, always delight with their antics and these provided a great way to wrap up my hike. Yes, I had once again missed a Spruce Grouse, but I’d gotten a good sense for what’s going on with the birds in Glacier this time of year. That was invaluable knowledge in my continuing education as a birder. It also happened to make a real contribution to science in the park.
I had no idea what was making that eerie looping call—until I saw this Canada Jay fly to a nearby treetop.
Returning home, I looked up how many eBird checklists have been posted for Camas Creek Trail in the fall. To my astonishment, mine was only the second ever checklist for September! (The other list, from later in the month, noted only three species.) A couple of lists have been posted later, but my own provides the only eBird data for this interesting time of year. Now I know this sounds like boasting, but I mention it to emphasize two important facts:
Even though birding has been around a long time, HUGE gaps remain in what we know about almost every bird species, its movements, and habits.
Your citizen science contributions matter. Sometimes it’s a pain or inconvenient to post what you see on eBird, but you just never know when you will be providing crucial information to a scientist or policy expert wanting to learn something new or make an important decision.
And really, could it get any better? Contributing to knowledge while being out having a great time? I don’t think so. Just keep an eye out for those grizzly bears.
Be sure to catch Sneed at the Montana Festival of the Book on Friday, September 8. He will be on a panel at 11:30, followed by his own session about his recent books Waiting for a Warbler and Border Crossings at 1:15. The following Monday, Flathead Audubon will be hosting Sneed for a presentation. Hope to see you there!
This past Friday, Braden and I set out on a quest for a bird that has steadfastly evaded my life list: Spruce Grouse. In truth, I’ve probably seen one of these birds before—but long before I became a birder—and Braden wanted to help me officially nail it down before he headed back to Maine for his junior year of college. To try to find it we decided to explore a road we’d never before birded—the road up to Garnet Ghost Town, a once thriving mining community about ten miles off of Highway 200. Spoiler alert: we didn’t find a Spruce Grouse. What we did find proved to be a lot more interesting.
As I’ve mentioned before, Braden and I used to pretty much write off August as a good birding month. In recent years, shorebirds especially have shown us that this was an egregious mistake. As far as passerines are concerned, however, we retained our bad August attitude. After all, our typical birding areas around Missoula get eerily quiet in August—almost as if all of the birds have gone on vacation. Turns out they aren’t on vacation. They’re working hard—at a little bit different elevation.
As we turned off of the highway, the road to Garnet began climbing in elevation. We saw a few robins and flickers from our car, but in these kinds of situations, you really don’t know what’s around unless you stop, get out, and listen. After a few miles, we did exactly that—and were amazed by what we found. In what is always a good sign, Mountain Chickadees were sounding off, and as we always hope, a lot of other species accompanied them. We quickly spotted MacGillivray’s, Yellow-rumped, and Orange-crowned Warblers—and a warbler that had stubbornly eluded my crummy ears all year, Townsend’s Warbler!
While I failed to capture a nice photo, I was thrilled to actually see my first Townsend’s Warbler of 2023.
Along with the warblers, Williamson’s Sapsuckers and a Hairy Woodpecker put on a good show, along with Evening Grosbeaks, Canada Jays, Warbling and Cassin’s Vireos, Pine Siskins, and a whole slew of Chipping Sparrows, Western Tanagers, and Ruby-crowned Kinglets. Braden’s excellent ears also detected Golden-crowned Kinglets and a Brown Creeper—the first I’d managed to see all year.
Scads of “Rickies” (Ruby-crowned Kinglets) swarmed the forest edges near Garnet—which explains why they haven’t been in our yard lately!
Our next stop a mile or two later gave up an even greater encounter. We saw a bunch of birds heading away from the road so decided to follow them. As a trio of Canada Jays entertained us, we heard a woodpecker methodically pecking away and Braden went to search for it. “Three-toed!” he excitedly called, looking up at a backlit bird high in a tree. Though the yellow head marking was clearly visible, it actually turned out to be an even more surprising bird—a Black-backed Woodpecker, the first I’d ever seen outside a burn area! The habitat made sense, though, as burns weren’t too far away and a lot of dead trees seemed ready to give up beetle grubs.
This Black-backed Woodpecker both delighted and surprised us with its unexpected location outside of a burn area.
Thrilled with this discovery, we continued onto Garnet Ghost Town. Like most ghost towns, this one has an interesting story. It went from gold boom to bust between approximately 1895 to 1905, and at its peak was home to about a thousand people. By around 1948, the last hangers-on abandoned the town. Thanks to dedicated preservation efforts, however, Garnet today boasts that it is “Montana’s Best-Preserved Ghost Town” and, indeed, the remaining buildings seem in remarkably good shape. Even better, the town sits in a stunning location, surrounded by forests and, even at this time of year, green meadows.
In addition to having a fascinating history, Garnet Ghost Town sits in one of the loveliest spots in Montana.
After exploring the town for a few minutes, Braden and I decided to walk a loop trail in a last effort to find a Spruce Grouse. Again, no grouse. We did walk by plenty of caved-in mine shafts, however, and encountered even more cool birds. These included another Williamson’s Sapsucker, a Vaux’s Swift, and two Olive-sided Flycatchers! Then, a Common Night-hawk called above us and we spotted a second one perched in a tree. Garnet, though, had one more treasure for us.
One of four Williamson’s Sapsuckers we observed near Garnet Ghost Town.
As we neared the end of the loop trail, we saw a bird flitting about on a log. I didn’t at first recognize it, but Braden’s many hours of study paid off. “It’s a Townsend’s Solitaire—and in its ‘pine cone’ plumage!” he exclaimed. I had never heard of the pine cone plumage, but sure enough, this juvenile bird sported a pattern distinctly different from the smoother coloration of the adults. I can best describe it as, well, uh . . . a pine cone!
The “pine cone bird”—our first juvenile Townsend’s Solitaire! What a beauty, huh?
We admired the bird for many minutes and then headed back to our trusty minivan. It had been an outing that far exceeded our expectations, and had proved highly educational. I had heard from Dick Hutto and other biologists that many birds head up to higher elevations to hunt and forage after their babies have fledged, but this was the first time I could remember coming face to face with them—and in such numbers! Though we knew birds continue to face many threats, our experience today made Braden and I both feel better about the state of Montana’s birds, and we excitedly added the Garnet area to our permanent August “must do” birding locations.
I had thought about everything I needed for the two-day trip to Cape May, New Jersey. Tent and sleeping supplies, check. Food and water, check. Cash for toll roads, check. Nothing could go wrong, right? And then, I turned on the field vehicle and promptly backed it into a fence post.
Thankfully, as my crew leader Tyler Hodges assured me later, the damage was limited to some paint marks and a small crack on the plastic on the end of the Jeep, and I was soon on my way, navigating Pennsylvania and New Jersey highways as I headed east, then south. My days off this summer would be limited to one per week, which meant any and all birding trips would have to be quick, even more so than last summer. This one, my first of the summer, was just about as quick as possible, as I planned to spend the night in southern New Jersey and drive back to the Pocono Mountains of northeastern Pennsylvania the following afternoon. I had rarely driven this far on my own, so I made sure to take as many breaks as necessary as I drove south. One of these included a fifteen-minute rest at a place called Cheesequake State Park in northern New Jersey, which produced a very cooperative Great Crested Flycatcher, calling on top of an exposed branch as I walked into the park bathroom. Good birds already!
Edwin B. Forsythe National Wildlife Refuge with “America’s Playground”, Atlantic City, on the horizon.
At around 2 p.m., I pulled into Edwin B. Forsythe National Wildlife Refuge, the birding hotspot that had originally caught my eye and led me to take this trip. The primary target birds I had here were Gull-billed Terns, one of the last common North American terns I had yet to see. These odd-looking terns lived on coasts all over the world, and this wildlife refuge was their most northern colony in North America. As I paid my entry fee and started the loop drive around the refuge, I could quickly see why the terns loved it here. An expansive saltmarsh sprawled before me, interspersed with patches of open water and exposed mudflats. I could see both the skyscrapers of Atlantic City and the blue horizon of the Atlantic Ocean in the distance. I had timed my visit so that I would arrive during the low tide, targeting a group of birds that my dad and I always seem to be chasing: shorebirds. Sure enough, the mudflats in front of me were covered in them. Hundreds of tiny Semipalmated Sandpipers probed the mud, extracting invertebrates with their bills. A buzzy song came from the grasses on the opposite bank from me, and I lifted my binoculars to reveal a male Seaside Sparrow, belting his little heart out. I’d gotten my lifer Seaside Sparrow last year in Florida, but these were far better views, which would continue to improve throughout the day.
A banded American Oystercatcher.
As I continued driving, the birds just kept coming. Semipalmated Sandpipers were not the only shorebirds taking advantage of the exposed mud, although they were by far the most numerous. I was granted close views of Short-billed Dowitchers, Dunlin, Ruddy Turnstones and Black-bellied and Semipalmated Plovers, all in their sharp breeding plumages. I spotted a Black-necked Stilt in one pond, an apparently rare bird here, and was treated to a few looks at a Whimbrel flock as it lifted from a field and flew over me. Later on during the drive, I added Least Sandpiper and both yellowlegs to my list. Almost all of these birds were on the move, having stopped here to refuel on their way to their arctic breeding grounds. There were a few resident shorebirds around, too, including the “Saltmarsh” Willet (a subspecies I had never seen before) and a single, banded American Oystercatcher in a ditch on the side of the road.
Apparently I had hit Edwin B. Forsythe at the perfect time, because all of the saltmarsh birds were out to play. Along with the Seaside Sparrows, I also glimpsed a few Saltmarsh Sparrows, a bird that I’d last seen with my dad in Massachusetts two summers prior. I had also spent my spring semester at the University of Maine working for Dr. Kate Ruskin, a Saltmarsh Sparrow researcher, so it was really cool to see the species that much of my work had revolved around! Unfortunately, this species is expected to go extinct by 2060 due to climate change-induced sea level rise, which would wipe out its entire nesting habitat. Lots of work is being done on the species, however, and hopefully some solutions arise to combat their disappearance. Along with the sparrows, I also was treated to fabulous looks at a Clapper Rail out in the open, and nearly double-digit numbers of Ospreys.
Saltmarsh Sparrows are some of the birds most threatened by rising sea levels due to climate change.
But the real treat at Edwin B. Forsythe was the terns. Forster’s Terns seemed to be in charge around here, and I saw dozens of them, plunge-diving into the shallow water for fish and resting on mudflats. There were also Least Terns, the smallest terns in the world, and one Caspian Tern, the world’s largest tern, providing great looks. One crowd of birders revealed a large flock of roosting Black Skimmers, also in the tern family, and always a joy to see. And, as I rounded a bend about halfway through the drive, I got my first lifer of the trip: three Gull-billed Terns, lounging on the mudflats! I stared at them for a while, admiring their blunt, black beaks. Unlike the other terns mentioned, Gull-billeds apparently never plunge-dive, instead preferring to eat crabs and other invertebrates. That likely explains the unique bill shape!
A quick glance at these birds reveals how they got their name, Gull-billed Terns.
The sun began to hang low as I pulled out of Edwin B. Forsythe, and I headed for my next birding location, where I’d be staying for the night. Belleplain State Forest was located pretty far south in New Jersey, smack dab in the middle of the largest tract of Atlantic coastal pine barrens left in the world. This unique ecosystem was full of pine trees as well as a diverse assemblage of plants and animals, partially thanks to the area’s sandy soil. As I drove up to my campsite, I was reminded of the southeastern Longleaf Pine forests, the same ones that host Red-cockaded Woodpeckers and Brown-headed Nuthatches. While neither of those birds make it this far north, several southerners do, and I quickly set up my tent so I could get out and look for them. The campground bordered Nummy Lake, and I chose this as my focus, noting the tall pine trees and swampy terrain surrounding it. Within seconds, I heard my first target bird: a Yellow-throated Warbler. A little bit of pishing soon brought the bird into view: a beautiful gray, black and white warbler with a splash of yellow on the throat. My lifer Yellow-throated had been in a very similar habitat down at St. Marks National Wildlife Refuge in northern Florida the previous spring, though not quite as confiding as this individual. After checking me out, the bird returned to the tops of the trees, where it continued to belt out its song.
My second Yellow-throated Warbler proved much more cooperative than my first with my friend Nick at St. Marks NWR in 2022.
I picked up White-eyed Vireo, another more-southerly bird, as I kept walking, searching the trees for my second target at Belleplain. Then, in the distance, I heard a song that matched the recording on Merlin almost exactly, and made a beeline straight for that location. Once there, I played for the bird twice. No dice. I sighed. “I was really hoping to get this one. Oh well.” Suddenly, I heard a flutter of wings right above me. I looked up, to see a Prothonotary Warbler staring down at me from a branch no higher than two feet above my head. Even in the dying sunlight, it’s brilliant golden feathers stuck out against everything else. My jaw dropped. The Prothonotary flew over to a bush beside me, staring at me with curiosity and searching for the rival bird it had just heard. While I’d seen a lot of birds in the last few weeks, including a fair number of life birds, no bird had made my heart thump this hard inside my chest. A few incredibly special moments passed, and then the bird fluttered away, probably headed for bed, as I would be soon. The last time I had seen this bird was seven years ago, at High Island Texas, during my dad’s and my first big year. It had been the first bird on that trip to blow our minds, and represented the first year that I’d really begun to take birding seriously. Prothonotary Warbler had helped kick off my passion, and here I was seven years later, sharing a moment with another one, more than a thousand miles from that first encounter. I had no idea I would feel this way when I’d set my sights on one during this trip.
This was my first Prothonotary Warbler in seven years since my Dad and I had one of our first big birding adventures, in Houston, Texas.
The sun was setting, but the day wasn’t done. I plugged a Google Maps pin into my phone for another bird that loved southeastern pine forests. As I headed towards the spot, I took a brief stop at the Belleplain State Forest visitor center to go to the bathroom and brush my teeth. As I stepped out of the car, the songs of three flycatchers greeted me—two Eastern Phoebes and an Acadian Flycatcher, the latter a lifer! After missing that one at Nummy Lake, I certainly had not expected to get one singing at dusk along the side of the road, but then again, there is something special about parking lots! I listened to its “pizza” calls for a bit, then hopped back into the Jeep. Five minutes later, I pulled over on the side of the road and was immediately rewarded with my next target bird: Chuck-will’s-widow. Four of them called from the trees surrounding this random, rural dirt road, and I was reminded of my lifer last March in the Everglades.
The next morning, pounding rain on my tent woke me. While I’d been hoping for a better forecast, I had prepared for it and didn’t expect to see many birds today. However, what I would see was almost as cool. Forty minutes after leaving Belleplain State Forest, I got off at the last exit on the Garden State Parkway and entered the town of Cape May, New Jersey, one of the best birding spots on the continent. I joined several birders who already had their scopes trained on the waters of Delaware Bay at a hotspot called the Coral Avenue Dune Crossing, which consisted of a large wooden standing area overlooking a sandy beach and the ocean. While there weren’t many birds flying around (although the Forster’s Terns were again putting on a show), a tour group showed up after about half an hour, and I eavesdropped to learn a little bit about the famous birding location. The tour, it turns out, was being led by Tom Reed, the top eBirder for the hotspot location and one of the people who started many of the projects happening at Cape May. While Cape May, a peninsula at the bottom of New Jersey, certainly held plenty of potential during spring migration, it really outshined anywhere else on the eastern seaboard in fall. Because of its shape, thousands of migrating birds following the Atlantic coast would be funneled into it every autumn, halted by the daunting flight across the mouth of Delaware Bay. The migrants all stopped here, in mind-boggling numbers—Tom spoke of kettles of thousands of raptors circling above the platform on which I stood, trying to gain enough height to make it across the water crossing.
Coral Avenue Dune Crossing, one of Cape May’s most famous hotspots.
At the recommendation of some of the birders at the Coral Avenue Dune Crossing, I headed to Higbee Beach WMA. In the pouring rain, I did not see many birds, and I definitely didn’t see the migrating warblers I’d been hoping for. I did spot some Horseshoe Crabs on the beach, however, as well as a few Prairie Warblers and Indigo Buntings on territory in the subtropical dune scrub. Following that, I hopped in the car to dry off, and turned back north, heading for the Poconos. While I hadn’t seen many birds today, I hadn’t really had many targets any way, and I had seen Cape May. On top of that, the day before I had gotten two lifers and knocked all of my targets out of the park. Coastal New Jersey, you can bet I’ll be back.
Among my last “birds” of the trip, horseshoe crabs are a vital resource for migrating Red Knots, who feast on the crabs’ eggs.
If you ever doubt how inspiring birds are to people, just look at the incredible bird-related creativity writers, artists, and photographers pour forth into the world. I plead guilty to be among their ranks as birds have inspired at least half a dozen of my books and countless articles. Sometimes, though, birds themselves are not the topic. Instead, my pursuit of birds gives me another idea. Such is the case with my new picture book, Border Crossings.
During the past seven years, Braden and I have been fortunate to be able to bird along the U.S.-Mexico border at least four times: twice in Arizona, and once each in Texas and California. These trips have been among the most inspiring of our birding lives, not only providing glimpses of hundreds of remarkable birds, but introducing us to the rich human culture that spans the border region. When our former president announced plans to build a steel barrier the full length of our border, it rang alarm bells for numerous reasons. For one thing, it seemed a giant slap in the face to Mexico, a country we depend on and take advantage of in many ways. I also worried how a wall would impact the myriad animal species that regularly cross back and forth across the border.
San Bernardino NWR is one of many places we birded in 2016 that was wall-free. Now, a giant steel barrier both prevents many animals from moving freely through their natural home—it directly endangers several officially listed endangered fishes.To read about that click here.
Though we humans have drawn an artificial line separating the U.S. and Mexico, the fact is that continuous ecosystems run through this remarkably biodiverse region. In these ecosystems, animals routinely cross back and forth from one country to another. Many do this in the course of their daily routines while others cross mostly during annual migrations. The steel “bollard” wall, however, has gaps only four inches wide—small enough to exclude hundreds of animal species. Even some birds—think game birds, roadrunners, and Ferruginous Pygmy-owls—probably turn back from this monstrosity. That’s not to mention javelinas, pronghorn, tortoises, hares, wolves, and dozens of other larger animals. Clearly, in their rush to build a political statement, no one in charge gave wildlife the slightest thought.
One of many Arizona border communities that was wall-free during our 2016 trip is now permanently divided by an ugly barrier—one that is doing untold damage not only to these communities but to wildlife.
The wall.
Border Crossingsis my attempt to raise awareness of this important issue. To illustrate the dilemma, the story follows two ocelots. These beautiful wild cats live in both Texas and Arizona as well as Mexico, and I decided to show the plight of one that is free to cross the border without obstruction—and one that is blocked by the imposing steel barrier. I was fortunate that my publisher hired the talented Howard Gray to illustrate the book. His remarkable illustrations really bring the story to life and, I hope, make readers young and old think about the often catastrophic consequences of simple-minded solutions.
One problem I had writing the story is that wall construction proceeded at breakneck speed even as we were going through the editing process. On our last trip to Arizona, in fact, Braden and I were dismayed to see this ugly barrier stretch across several regions that had been beautifully wall-free during our previous trip in 2016. Rather than trying to rewrite the story, I explain the situation in the backmatter. Realistically, I don’t see the wall coming down anytime soon, but I hope Border Crossings will help create momentum to at least build numerous wildlife crossings through it. If you’d like to make a difference, share your concerns with your U.S. Senators and Congressmen. As great men have stated in the past, only if we stay silent can tyranny—and in this case, horrible ideas—triumph.
For humans, the border is just a problem to be solved, but for thousands of species, this region is home.(From Border Crossings, illustrated by Howard Gray.)
Our recent post on Montana’s famous Northern Hawk Owl generated an astonishing two million views . . . or was that, er, two hundred? Either way, that’s pretty good for us, but it did put us in a quandary over how to follow up. Our answer? Look for more owls!
But first, I promised you some other winter birds. As revealed in past posts, Braden and I have discovered that one of the best way to make sure we see certain winter birds is to go to Discovery—ski area, that is. This year, on the way back from seeing the Northern Hawk Owl, we detoured through Anaconda to see what we could find. Fate seemed to shine on us as we spotted a Golden Eagle just outside of Anaconda, but when we pulled into the crowded Discovery parking lot, we didn’t see a single bird. “Hm, that’s strange,” Braden murmured. “And we forgot to bring bird seed with us,” I added.
Though more common than some other winter birds, getting to see Steller’s Jays up close made us realize anew how spectacular these birds are.
Prepared for disappointment, we climbed out of the minivan, cameras and binoculars slung around our shoulders, and began trekking around the parking lot. After fifty yards, Braden stopped and said, “Hear that? Clark’s Nutcracker.” We followed the harsh calls toward the back of Discovery’s first aid hut, and saw a promising red flash of something flying. Drawing closer, we hit a veritable bonanza of winter birds cashing in on a generous scattering of bird seed behind the hut. Mountain Chickadees flew out to greet us first, but we soon encountered almost every other bird we could imagine: Steller’s Jays, Clark’s Nutcrackers, Evening Grosbeaks, and our favorites, Pine Grosbeaks. Each had a different strategy for attacking the food supply and we stood mesmerized for twenty minutes watching them.
This male Pine Grosbeak may be one of my favorite bird photos I’ve ever taken. Gotta love the pose, which shows off the bird’s “Ooh” and “Ah” factors to the max.Good thing I got it, too, as the bird signed with a major talent agency minutes afterward.
“The only thing we haven’t seen,” I said, “are Canada Jays.” As we began walking back toward the car, however, Braden spotted a silhouette on top of a distant tree. He raised his binoculars for a moment, then turned to me. “Guess what it is,” he said. “Canada Jay?” I hazarded. “Yeah.” We laughed and moments later had a great photo shoot with two CAJAs that ventured closer. Leaving Discovery, we drove some side roads looking for Great Gray Owls, and the bird Braden most wanted to see before he returned to Maine for spring semester: Northern Pygmy-owl. Unfortunately, this winter the Owl Gods have decreed a limit of one owl per day for us and we saw no other Strigiformes (the bird order of owls) for the day.
Though not exactly rare, sightings of Canada Jays in Montana are unpredictable, so getting good looks at these “ski area” birds is especially appreciated. These birds apparently survive by stashing perishable food under the loose bark of trees for later retrieval.Climate change may be eroding the conditions the birds need to survive along the southern parts of their range.
Still, we both really wanted to see a NPOW before Braden left, so a couple days later we headed out to Maclay Flat, where we’d seen our very first NPOW in 2016. They weren’t reported too frequently, but they were being seen, and as soon as we got out of the car, we heard the distinctive periodic advertising call of a Northern Pygmy-owl. We followed the sound toward the river, and then crunched through snow down a side trail—only to discover a photographer set up with a very long camera lens. He silently pointed up into a tree and we worked around until we could see it—a small, fuzzy blob about thirty feet above us.
While owls aren’t guaranteed, Maclay Flat is definitely one the best places in Montana to see owls. We were glad this Northern Pygmy-owl came through for us on Braden’s last birding expedition before returning to college.
Braden and I grinned and gave each other a quiet Hi-Five. After taking some photos, we settled in to watch it. The photographer said he’d heard at least three NPOWs calling back and forth—which seemed odd in broad daylight, and seemingly well before breeding season. Biologists I’ve talked to, though, emphasize how territorial these birds are, so perhaps the vocalizations help maintain their territories all year long. Whatever was going on, we—like most people—can’t get enough of owls and once again felt privileged to enjoy them as part of our world. It helped soften the blow of missing Braden when I took him to the airport a couple mornings later. Just not enough.
