Category Archives: Endangered Species

Magnificent Cape May

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.

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.**

Amazing Birding in the Adirondacks

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The silhouette of Mt. Marcy, New York State’s highest peak, loomed in the distance as I bouldered the final steps up to the summit of Whiteface, the state’s fifth highest mountain. Upon reaching the top, I removed the bug net I’d been wearing, since the wind up here kept away the blackflies that plagued the rest of the alpine forest blanketing the mountain’s slopes. As a Peregrine Falcon soared by the cliffs underneath me, I picked a lichen-covered rock on which to take a seat and scarf down a PB&J sandwich.

**Growing up in Montana, I didn’t know that scenery like this could be found in the East.**

Ever since hearing about them, I’d always wanted to visit the Adirondack Mountains of northern New York, and as I munched away on my sandwich, I listened to the dry rattle of a Blackpoll Warbler from a stunted Balsam Fir thirty meters downslope of me. These warblers, which I’d never before observed on their breeding grounds, were one of the reasons I had driven up this mountain to begin with. Whiteface had extensive alpine habitat perfect for these high-altitude or high-latitude breeders. Several minutes later, an even bigger avian star sang to my right: a Bicknell’s Thrush.

The thrush’s descending song sounded like the musical representation of a loud whisper, and stood out sharply from both the sounds of other alpine bird species and the hikers complaining about the steep path to the summit. Bicknell’s Thrush, like the other Catharus thrushes, has a unique and haunting song that has caused many an American naturalist to write about it. Unlike the other thrushes in its genus, however, Bicknell’s has a tiny breeding range, encompassing only the highest mountains in the northeastern United States and the nearby Canadian maritime forests. Only 100,000 or so of these birds exist in the wild, and the region I was sitting in is a major stronghold for the species.

**The Adirondacks are a stronghold for Bicknell’s Thrush, a vulnerable species that breeds only in a few select areas of the northeast and winters in the Caribbean.**

Whiteface Mountain may be only the fifth tallest peak in the Adirondacks, but it is by far the most visited by birders and other wilderness lovers. Franklin D. Roosevelt is to thank for this. Roosevelt, as the governor of New York and later the president of the United States, launched the building of a road to the peak of the mountain, providing jobs during the Great Depression as well as something arguably more important: access for all to a place that only the fit and the privileged could previously reach. Thanks to Roosevelt and his road, anyone can experience the thrill of being on top of the world—and hearing the ethereal songs of Bicknell’s Thrushes.

As far as ecosystems go, the Adirondacks hold two extremes not found farther south: the alpine forest home of Bicknell’s Thrushes and Blackpoll Warblers, and boreal bogs occupied by Black-backed Woodpeckers and Yellow-bellied Flycatchers. Before driving up Whiteface, I’d visited one of the area’s most famous bogs, the Bloomingdale Bog, to try my luck at the latter two species as well as a variety of others that were either less common or completely absent from the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania where I’d been working the last two months.

After parking at the entrance to the bog trail and coating myself in a three-inch layer of bug spray, I headed into the woods, and immediately recognized that the songs emanating from the brush and the trees differed from what I was used to in the Poconos. In Pennsylvania, a day with a White-throated Sparrow was considered a treat. Here, by comparison, their “Old-Sam-Peabody-Peabody-Peabody” echoed from every branch. Nashville Warblers dominated the chorus, barely allowing any other warbler species a chance to speak, and I spotted a few Hermit Thrushes hopping along the path. Half a mile from the parking lot, the trees gave way to large, wet meadows full of Alder Flycatchers, Common Yellowthroats, and the flies they fed on. Unfortunately, the flies fed on me, too, although the bug net around my head provided some defense.

**My long weekend treated me to my best looks ever of Magnolia Warblers!**

Hiking the trail, it took about an hour to find my first target, and it flew right up to me. While I’d seen Canada Jays before, I’d never seen them on the East Coast, and the bogs of the Adirondacks are a well-known spot for these northern breeders. So well-known, in fact, that visiting birders regularly feed Canada Jays at the Bloomingdale Bog—something that this bird evidently knew when it chose to perch only a feet from my face. After determining that I had no morsel to give, it retreated back into the conifers, but not before I’d gotten dozens of great pictures of it.

**It’s a bit mind-blowing to see Canada Jays in the East after growing up with them in Montana.**

The Black-backed Woodpeckers, a northern species that I’d seen in my home state of Montana, proved more difficult to observe. Several times, I spotted woodpeckers flying from stands of dead trees a second too late, with only a distant call confirming that these were Black-backeds. My frustration was short-lived, however, as a third one of my target birds revealed itself to me about three miles down the trail.

**In Montana, Black-backed Woodpeckers are found almost exclusively in newer burn areas. It was odd to see one in a bog.**

Speaking of Montana, most of the birds that birders target in the Adirondacks also occur out West. One exception: Yellow-bellied Flycatcher, the last widespread Empidonax flycatcher I had yet to see in the United States. After some false alarms from similar-sounding Least Flycatchers, I finally nailed down a Yellow-bellied singing and flycatching from a bush adjacent to a wet meadow. I snapped a few photos of the life bird, admiring its darker yellow belly and thick eye-ring that set it apart from the other possible flycatchers in the area. Of course, the main identification feature I used to tell it apart was its song, a brief “che-bunk”.

The Bloomingdale Bog and Whiteface Mountain filled up my birding meter for the day, and I returned to Lake Placid, the mountain town where my AirBnB was located, to spend an evening relaxing and exploring the small downtown. Two themes stuck out in the store names and art pieces of the town, and they were both seasonal. Firstly, Lake Placid had been the site of not one but two Winter Olympic Games, and a large museum and shopping mall had been erected in the middle of town to remind all tourists and residents of this. The AirBnB I would be staying at for three nights sat next door to the Lake Placid Olympic Training Center, and I drove past several event sites including a large ski jumping complex.

**Walking through a bug-filled bog is a lot more tolerable when you’re treated to scenery like this.**

Every business not named for the Olympics had the number “46” in it somewhere. I learned from a small magazine in the Lake Placid Public Library that this referred not to the 46 presidents (to date) of the United States, but to the 46 “High Peaks” of the Adirondacks—those over 4,000 feet. Inconveniently, three of the mountains had been subsequently shown to be less than 4,000 feet while another 4,000-footer had been completely overlooked. Nonetheless, mountaineers ignored these revisions and focused on the original 46. According to the magazine, approximately 13,000 people from ages 8 to 76 had climbed every peak to become a member of the “46ers Club”. Many of these 46ers finished by climbing Whiteface Mountain so their families could drive up and join them on the summit.

Of even greater interest than the 46ers Club, Chimney Swifts wheeled over downtown, while Mirror Lake State Park held a pair of nesting Common Loons. In fact, I would soon find out that every lake or pond in the area seemed to have its own breeding pair.

The next morning I found myself scanning the tall snags at the start of Blue Mountain Road for Olive-sided Flycatchers, another scarce boreal breeder that lived in the Adirondacks. I couldn’t locate any, but did manage to have a phenomenal time birding the twenty-mile dirt road that wound its way through three types of forest up to a town close to the Canadian border. Much to the delight of the mosquitoes and flies, I drove slowly with the windows down, listening and scanning for any boreal bird that wanted to show itself. My primary target was Spruce Grouse, which I did not see, despite seeing many signs of them—literally! This species is extremely range-restricted and endangered in the state of New York, and the only place it can be found is exactly where I was searching. On one part of Blue Mountain Road, I saw a sign posted every hundred meters about how sightings of Spruce Grouse should be reported immediately, as well as detailed guides to distinguish them from the much more abundant Ruffed Grouse (one of which I did see). I wasn’t too beat up about missing Spruce Grouse, though, since I’d seen a few in Montana and hoped to try again in August with my dad. Plus, I recorded fifty other species, including fifteen species of warblers and another Canada Jay. On one trail I walked I spotted moose tracks and a weasel!

That evening, I canceled my plans to relax and headed out in search of two target species that I hadn’t seen yet: Olive-sided Flycatcher and Boreal Chickadee. For an hour I walked a stretch of high-altitude highway where the chickadees had been reported but to no avail (although I did get to watch a very cooperative Black-backed Woodpecker forage for bugs), and visited a bog divided by an old railroad track that most certainly did not have Olive-sideds. I can’t be too upset, I thought as I drove into a sunset the color of a Blackburnian Warbler. While I’d missed a fair number of my targets, I’d gotten to cross a destination off of my bucket list as well as add a place to my “must return to” list. The Adirondacks definitely had that atmosphere of wilderness that so few places have these days, while at the same time having significantly fewer tourists than a national park. I knew I’d be back.

Another Accidental Big Year: Sneed’s 2022 Recap

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FatherSonBirding’s millions of loyal fans will have no doubt noticed a paucity of posts the past few months, and we sincerely apologize, noting the severe nationwide downturn in consumer confidence and the real estate market that this has obviously precipitated. Fortunately, our silence has been a result of good things happening to Braden and me. Braden has been having some exceptional academic experiences during his fall semester at UMaine while I have been kept busy both birding and working on several exciting book projects that have come my way. That said, we’d like to take a couple of posts to wrap up the last few months and, indeed, our entire year of birding. Since Braden is studying for finals, I’ll go first.

Some of you followed my “Accidental Big Year” last year in which I set a new personal best of 352 ABA species during 2021. Believe it or not, I’ve blundered into another accidental Big Year in 2022. How the heck did that happen? I mean, I have definitely underperformed in my home state of Montana this year, notching my lowest total in several years. Fortunately, our trips to New York City and Arizona put me within striking distance. By early October, my count sat at a tantalizing 335 species, only 17 birds short of tying last year’s record, but where would the additional species come from? Some good writing news led to the answer.

This summer, I landed a contract to write about conservation on military bases, with a special focus on Eglin Air Force Base in the Florida panhandle. I chose this base because I spent all of my summers growing up with my father in Pensacola—adjacent to Eglin. Call it nostalgia or a desire to learn more about the area’s species, but I arranged to interview biologists down there to find out what they were doing. First, though, I decided to stop to see my brother in Atlanta, Georgia.

**On my recent trip, I didn’t get photos of my best Atlanta birds, but Tufted Titmice are always a blast to see.**

Honestly, I didn’t know how many new birds I’d see in Atlanta. Migration season was waning, and it was possible warblers and other songbirds had already moved through. In general, they had, but thanks to some intensive studying and tutelage by Braden, I was able to score a number of great birds including a trio of wonderful warblers: Blackpoll, Tennessee, and most exciting, Cape May—a Lifer pour moi.

Leaving Georgia to take up a week-long residence with my stepmother Suzanne and her partner Jim in Milton, Florida, I wondered if I was close enough to top 352 for the year? Unfortunately, I arrived in Florida suffering from my first cold in three years—one I am just now getting over six weeks later. Not how I wanted to begin three consecutive long days of work at Eglin! Nonetheless, I persevered and got a bunch of great information from the base biologists. Oh, and I kept adding up Year Birds! In fact, I couldn’t have asked for a better bird to break my record. As biologist Kelly Jones drove me around teaching me about endangered salamanders, we ran into a group of Red-cockaded Woodpeckers, one of America’s coolest and most unusual birds. These birds became endangered due to the catastrophic loss of longleaf pine ecosystems across the Southeast, but many people have been working to restore both the pines and the woodpeckers. Last I heard, Eglin is home to the nation’s fourth-largest population, but this was the only group I ran into while there.

**Red-cockaded Woodpeckers are the only North American woodpeckers that carve holes in living trees. Apparently, the sap running down the tree trunk helps deter snakes and other potential predators.**

Not wanting to wear out my welcome with Suzanne and Jim, I used the weekend to take a jaunt over to Tallahassee to visit St. Marks National Wildlife Refuge. My dad, a professor at the University of West Florida, led many field trips to St. Marks and always raved about it. More recently, Braden and Nick Ramsey, visited the refuge, seeing among other things a lone flamingo that has lived at the refuge for the past four years. I hoped also to see this bird—dubbed “Pinky”—but kept my expectations low.

**I know they’re common, but I love Red-shouldered Hawks, and this is by far the best photo I’ve ever taken of one.**

Upon arriving, I discovered that St. Marks truly is a magical place—a remnant of “Old Florida” with towering oaks and pristine marshes—and my visit got off to a good start with great views of a Red-shouldered Hawk and Yellow-bellied Sapsucker at the visitor’s center. I asked the local naturalist if anyone had seen Pinky the flamingo lately and she said yes, but didn’t know where, so I decided to head down to Lighthouse Pool and work my way back. As I reached the pond, I happened to glance right. There, in the middle of the pond, stood a large orange blob.

“No way!” I exclaimed, braking to the side of the road as I reached for my binoculars. Sure enough, there stood Pinky—America’s most famous flamingo. Full disclosure: Pinky was not the most exciting bird on the planet, content to just stand there and preen when s/he felt like it. Taking a walk along the southern edge of the pond, however, I picked up lots of other nice Year Birds including Reddish Egret, Tricolored Heron, Short-billed Dowitcher, Semipalmated Plover, and more.

**I’m not sure where Pinky got his name, but to me he looked obviously orange. Still, an official Lifer for me, though I did see American Flamingos thirty years ago in Bonaire.**

My visit to St. Marks was far from finished. As I drove back up the road, I thought I spotted a rail at the East River Pool location. I didn’t—and this was not the first time I’d mistaken a Common Gallinule for a rail! Training my eyes out on the pond, though, my heart picked up. Why? Because way out there among a large group of wading birds, I spotted another Lifer: Wood Stork! Along with Roseate Spoonbills, another Year Bird. My Lifer-palooza hadn’t ended, either. Following Braden’s directions I drove to another part of the refuge to hear my Lifer Clapper Rails.

**This is at least the second time I’ve mistaken a Common Gallinule for a Clapper Rail. I do believe they’re closely related, though, so I hope that you, my dear readers, cut me some slack!**

I returned to Montana with a total of 372 Year Birds and have since picked up a few more, thanks to a fortuitous discovery of Montana’s first Long-tailed Duck of the winter, along with the first Bonaparte’s Gulls I’ve ever seen in Missoula County. These and a Horned Grebe now have me sitting at 375, well in excess of my previous ABA Big Year record. My guess is that I’ll pick up one or two more when Braden gets home in a couple of weeks—though what they might be I have no idea. And you know, it really doesn’t matter. While it’s fun to count birds, it’s even more fun to get out and see them and, hopefully, make some new friends along the way. At St. Marks I met several delightful birders to share my adventures with. I hope that as 2022 draws to a close, you all have your own memorable birding adventures combined with heavy doses of peace and friendship.

My Lighthouse Pool checklist.

**Perhaps my biggest score of the year was seeing the first Long-tailed Duck recorded this winter in Montana—and my first male ever. If this isn’t a glorious animal, I don’t know what is!**

Half Moon Bay & the Hunt for Braden’s 1,000th Bird

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After almost two months in the Sierras, Braden and his co-worker San Darmstadt headed to the coast for a much-anticipated chance to go on a pelagic birding cruise out of Half Moon Bay—familiar territory for his dad (yours truly) during his college years at Cal. While Braden had suffered from seasickness on previous pelagic cruises, he hoped that today would be different—especially because he was within three species of reaching the coveted 1,000 mark for his Life List. Would he make it? Would he lose his lunch—and breakfast? Read on to find out—and, as always, please feel free to share this post.

Photography note: as you will read below, Braden was not able to take photos of this trip, so I (Sneed) have taken the liberty of including photos from our first pelagic trip, out of Monterey with Debi Shearwater, during our Big Year of 2016. Photos of the actual Half Moon Bay cruise graciously provided by Sam Darmstadt! (Photo captions by Sneed.)

As far as I could count, I had taken not one, not two, but at least five precautions to counteract seasickness. As our boat, the Captain Pete, pulled out of Pillar Point Harbor, I stood on the ship’s port side, staring at the foggy seaside communities of Half Moon Bay, confident that this would be the time I finally avoided turning green out on the ocean. I could not have been more horribly wrong.

The leader of the Institute for Bird Populations Spotted Owl crew, Ramiro Aragon, had told us about this Half Moon Bay pelagic trip back in early June, and Sam Darmstadt and I had quickly signed up. That had given us close to two months of growing anticipation for the trip, and both of us were thrilled as we stepped aboard the boat at seven in the morning, backpacks loaded with saltines and minds filled with possible lifers we could see. I had taken a “Less Drowsy” Dramamine tablet half an hour earlier, and wore two acupressure bands on my wrists that supposedly helped to prevent motion sickness. The night before, I’d gone to bed early rather than socializing so that I would feel well-rested for the ten-hour pelagic the next morning. I even left my camera in the cabin, swearing to only use my binoculars if absolutely necessary as I grasped the railing with one hand and tucked the other in my pocket for warmth.

The birds began rolling in as soon as the boat cleared the harbor. Thousands of pelicans and cormorants roosted on the breakers, waiting for the heavy fog to lift. Alvaro Jamarillo, one of the United States’ best birders and a leading expert on all water-related birds (especially gulls), called out a Wandering Tattler feeding just above the water line on some of the rocks, providing everyone onboard with stellar looks at this species that I’ve only seen twice before. Behind Debi Shearwater’s famous pelagic boat tours that ended a few years prior, Alvaro’s Adventures were the most famous West Coast pelagic tours, in part thanks to Alvaro’s skill and experience, along with the rarities he’d encountered over the years. In 2014, this exact trip out of Half Moon Bay had run into the first ABA record of Salvin’s Albatross!

Hearts flutter with anticipation whenever a pelagic birding cruise leaves the harbor. Unfortunately, for those prone to seasickness, it will soon be a different part of the anatomy that flutters . . . and lurches and heaves!

Besides taking measures against seasickness, I’d compiled a slideshow to identify many of the species that were possible on this trip, and spent a good few hours staring at jaeger plumages, identification of winter alcids, and tubenose flight styles. I had a good idea of which birds were likely or possible on this trip, and had several targets in mind. Two of those were the birds I’d missed on the trip my dad and I had taken out of Monterey Bay six years earlier, Buller’s Shearwater and Ashy Storm-petrel. I’d been in the cabin, trying not to throw up, as these birds had flown by the boat. I intended for a different story this time.

Leaving the harbor, Alvaro called out a lifer almost immediately: Marbled Murrelet. I quickly saw smaller, browner alcids sitting in pairs between the groups of Common Murres, and allowed myself a few looks in my binoculars at these birds with such interesting ecology. Marbled Murrelet is a bird that has been on my dad’s and my minds for some time now, in part because, despite being seabirds, they breed dozens of miles inland in old growth forests. I learned later that in this area, while land was still in view, we had the highest count of this species ever recorded on any of Alvaro’s pelagic trips!

Even though they are some of the most common birds on pelagic trips, Common Murres are also some of the most remarkable. Before the chicks can even fly, the male parents goad them into leaping off of their cliff-face birthplaces into the sea, and raise them on the ocean surface. I’m thinking I should have tried that with Braden!

We began to move north and away from shore, and the water began to grow choppy. As I waited for birds to begin appearing, I talked with a friendly British birder standing next to me, and learned about all of the rare birds he’d been seeing in Britain in the last few years, including an American Robin that thousands of birders had gone to look for. The fog did not show any signs of disappearing, but we soon began to see birds streaking by in the distance: our first Sooty Shearwaters of the trip. Soon, we were amongst them, and by the end of the trip we had tallied thousands of the species. Pink-footed Shearwaters began to join them in low numbers, and I glimpsed a Northern Fulmar sitting in the water, a bird that I’d never seen in the United States.

**Braden and Sam were delighted to see thousands of Sooty Shearwaters streak through the fog and alight on the ocean. (Photo courtesy of Sam Darmstadt)**

Alas, the seas were not cooperating with my stomach. I later spoke to a birder who had been on upwards of twenty pelagic trips out of California who told me that he had never been on seas this rough. The wave heights reached seven or more feet at some points, and I stood there with my eyes on the horizon, refusing to glance at any birds that flew by. Please, I prayed, No seasickness today. It’s dampened enough of my pelagics already.

It was wishful thinking. After about an hour and a half of holding out, I made my way to the back of the boat and released my breakfast. This began a day of the most physical pain I have ever been in while birding. I had to visit the back of the boat eight times, in-between lying flat on my back on a seat in the cabin. I felt frustrated. I’d tried so hard, and done everything right, yet still, I was almost the only person on the boat stricken with seasickness and by far the worst case. And what’s more, I missed birds because of it.

As I lay in the cabin, trying to ignore the dizziness in my head, I heard one of the spotters out on the deck call out “Buller’s Shearwater!” I jumped up and rushed outside, but couldn’t spot the bird as it flew away from us. I could barely stand up, and had no intention of standing out there if the bird wasn’t there. There will be others, I thought, but there weren’t. It was the only Buller’s spotted on the whole trip, and as I learned later, the rarest bird seen that day. Sigh. I had really wanted to see that bird, a tubenose with such a detailed, beautiful wing pattern, yet something beyond my control had taken it from me for a second time. Adding to my frustration, I had no idea when I would be able to take another pelagic out of coastal California, but it would surely be years.

But as I lay in bed, I had to remind myself that a birding trip is not just defined by what birds you miss. Circumstance, not skill, had been the reason I’d missed the bird, and I’d see another one someday. And the birds (and other wildlife) I had seen had made the trip very worth it.

I missed one other lifer due to seasickness, one that was considerably less impressive than Buller’s Shearwater: Cassin’s Auklet, what I still believe to be not only the most lackluster alcid but one of the more boring birds in the United States. When several were called out, I sat up from my bench in the cabin and looked through the window in vain, straining to see a shape, but with no luck. However, when Ashy Storm-Petrel was announced over the intercom, I did the same thing, with success. I briefly spotted several dark, swallow-like birds flapping over the open ocean before collapsing back onto my seat. I lay there thinking, well, the looks weren’t great, but at least I saw the bird. And then it hit me. Marbled Murrelet had been my life bird #998. Ashy Storm-Petrel was #999. I’d just missed the Buller’s, but could not miss the next lifer that was called out, no matter how much physical pain it caused me.

The next bird called out was not a lifer, but it was a bird I hadn’t seen in six years and one I had been looking forward to seeing again. “Black-footed Albatross at nine o clock, flying towards the boat!”. I lifted myself up to stare out the window, and sure enough, there it was. A huge, dark seabird with a light-colored face cruised by at close range, causing me to smile as I fell back into my seat.

**Black-footed Albatrosses are a special treat for any birder, and often give great looks, as Braden and I found on our 2016 Monterey pelagic cruise.**

And then it happened. “There’s a flock of Sabine’s Gulls at nine o clock, and a Long-tailed Jaeger’s chasing them!” I again leapt out of my seat, stomach doing flips, and grabbed my binoculars from the table before stumbling out onto the deck. “Where is the jaeger?” I said, half-asleep (the “Less Drowsy” Dramamine had not been what it claimed to be). “There, behind the gulls!”

I stared out at a large flock of Sooty Shearwaters floating in the water. There were no gulls here. And then, the water dipped, revealing twenty-or-so Sabine’s Gulls in full breeding plumage, something I’d never seen before. I spent very little time admiring them, however—I was about to throw up again and I needed to get on this lifer. Then I saw it: a cream-colored bird with a dark cap and brown wings sitting in the water, its two long tail streamers waving in the wind. The whole flock suddenly flushed, scattering everywhere. The shearwaters went away from the boat, while the gulls flew off towards the front. The jaeger, however, decided to fly right over us. I stared up in astonishment as this beautifully-patterned, rare seabird floated right overhead, giving me the best views I’d ever had of any of the three jaeger species. It even had its tail feathers completely intact, making the identification much easier than anything I’d prepared for! Then, in celebration of my 1000th world life bird, I emptied the contents of my stomach over the back of the boat.

**Braden could not have asked for a better 1,000th Life Bird than this cooperative Long-tailed Jaeger! (Photo courtesy Sam Darmstadt)**

I forced myself to get up and peer through the cabin window for one more animal: Killer Whales. When they were called out, I ignored the thoughts in my head about how I’d seen them before in Iceland and should try to sleep instead, again peering out the foggy window. Sure enough, a young male Orca surfaced right next to the boat, showing off its white eye-spot and gray, saddle-like patch located behind its fin. That was all I could do before laying back down. The cetaceans then proceeded to put on a show for the rest of the boat, and turned out to be significantly rarer than anything else we saw that day, having only been seen on trips like this a handful of times. Other mammals that I got glimpses of were Humpback Whale, California Sea Lion and Harbor Seal.

Pelagic birding cruises might just as well be called pelagic cetacean cruises as, more often than not, various whales and dolphins put in an appearance—to wit, these Risso’s Dolphins from our 2016 trip.

Once we were about an hour from shore, on our way back, I got up and walked back out on the deck, feeling significantly better after sleeping for a few hours. Both the sky and the ocean had cleared up, and I stared at the Sooty Shearwaters that flew by, hoping another Buller’s would make an appearance. Besides those two lifers, I’d missed two other species: a Tufted Puffin that had flown by while I was in the bathroom, and several Pomarine Jaegers. As we drew closer to shore, however, I noticed a strange-looking gull flying in front of the boat. I raised my binoculars, and shouted out an identification before my brain could even decide if that identification was right or not. “Pomarine Jaeger!”

**The Loch Ness Seabird??? No, a Tufted Puffin peaking over a wave!**

Sure enough, all of the experts agreed—it was a clean-looking light morph jaeger with a dark breast band and a barrel-chested look. Despite the fact that the spotters had been calling out jaegers all day, I’d never spotted and identified one by myself, and a feeling of pride washed over me as everyone else got on the bird. This bird also helped me knock down my list of missed species to only three.

I basically kissed the ground once we got back to shore. Me and Sam’s birding for the day was not yet done, but that will have to make another blog. Despite the fact that my entire body was sore, and I was frustrated about missing one of the birds I’d most wanted to see, I had also had a great time. Getting great looks at Pomarine and Long-tailed Jaeger alone had made the trip worth it, besides all of the year birds and other lifers I’d seen. I’d gotten to one thousand species—roughly one-tenth of all of the bird species on the planet, and well on my way to seeing the other nine thousand. I was also firmly hooked on seabirds. One of the first things I said to my dad when he called me the next morning was this, “If I had to go through everything I went through all over again today, it would be worth it. I would get back on that boat.”

Braden’s Tales from the High Sierras, Episode 7: The Yosemite Bighorn Sheep Survey

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As Braden’s sensational Sierran summer begins to wind down, he has continued to have remarkable experiences, both avian and mammalian. In Episode 7, he recounts his hardest hike ever in an attempt to locate some of Yosemite’s most interesting and elusive mammals.

Despite being the nearest gas station, restaurant and convenience store to the eastern entrance of Yosemite National Park, the Mobil station was fairly empty when our red Nissan pulled into the parking lot at seven in the morning. We gathered around a table, breakfast burritos in hand, as we waited for the Bighorn Sheep biologists to arrive from their various lodgings. As we would learn later, sheep biologists sleep in because the sheep sleep in, which differs quite a bit from us bird biologists. At 7:30, we noticed a crowd gathering outside, and donned our identical Institute for Bird Populations baseball caps, heading out to meet them.

Among the scientists we met outside were Dr. Lacey Greene and Dr. John Wehausen, the latter of whom had worked with sheep his entire life and had apparently drafted most of the recovery plan for the Sierra Nevada Bighorn Sheep. As Wehausen joined the group, he struck up a conversation with Greene.

“537 had a lamb yesterday when we went out. 522, didn’t though. I’ve only seen a few lambs so far this year.”

Apparently, every single Bighorn Sheep in Yosemite National Park has a number assigned to it, and as I would learn, a radio collar frequency. The reason these surveys were being conducted in the first place was because the Sierra Nevada subspecies of Bighorn Sheep was not doing well. Due to threats that included diseases spread by domestic sheep, the entire population of Bighorn Sheep in the Sierra had declined to around 100 individuals in the 1990s, spurring the federal government to list them under the Endangered Species Act. Thanks in part to Wehausen’s recovery plan, as well as the hard work of dozens of other sheep scientists, the herd had now increased to roughly 600 sheep, both inside and outside of the park.

Dr. Greene introduced all of the biologists that would be hiking various parts of eastern Yosemite to look for sheep, and we approached her, asking which biologist we should go with for a medium-level route since we had work tomorrow and did not want to exert ourselves too much. We also requested a route that maximized our chances of seeing White-tailed Ptarmigan, a bird Sam needed for his life list. Interestingly, ptarmigan are not native to the Sierras and were introduced to the area in the 1970s, although we still hoped to run into some in the alpine zone we would be hiking. Dr. Greene pointed towards Seth, a graduate student from the University of Wyoming studying the carrying capacity of the Sierras for sheep, who would be doing a route called “Mt. Gibbs”.

“Should be a medium route with good chances of ptarmigan,” Dr. Greene said, and we took her word for it. Perhaps we shouldn’t have.

**Our “medium route” began pleasantly enough—but we had no idea what awaited us.**

After introducing ourselves to Seth, we all piled into the Nissan (which has adopted the name “the company car”) and joined the caravan of biologists and volunteers headed towards Tioga Pass. I quickly learned from Miles that we likely wouldn’t see many of the National Park’s main attractions, including Yosemite Valley and Half Dome, but soon realized that this did not mean we would be short on scenery. The road soon led us out of the sagebrush and juniper dominating the hills of the eastern Sierra and into subalpine forest. Carved peaks and ridges topped with snow rose around us, and in the distance I marveled at views rivaling Glacier National Park. After entering the park, we soon arrived at the Mono Pass Trailhead and set off through Lodgepole Pine forest with two dozen bighorn sheep biologists.

Several months ago, I’d had no idea what part of California held Yosemite, and now here I was, crossing another one of the United States’ most beautiful places off of my bucket list. The trail crossed wet meadows and creeks, filled with the songs of Lincoln’s and White-crowned Sparrows, and as we gained elevation, Miles pointed out the peaks around us.

**My co-worker, Miles Carlile, tromping through the some of the world’s most spectacular scenery.**

“To our left is Mt. Dana, the second-tallest peak in the park at 13,000 feet,” he said excitedly, “And at some point we should be able to see the tallest, Mt. Lyell, to the right along with the Lyell Glacier below it.”

I’d had no idea that any glaciers existed in California, and later learned that the Lyell Glacier was one of only two left in the park. And despite the wilderness-feeling that Yosemite produced as we hiked through it, glaciers weren’t the only thing missing from this once-intact ecosystem. Every time my dad and I visited Glacier, we would try to see the Big Four, what we considered to be the largest (and most obvious) wildlife in the park. Bighorn Sheep were the only one of those species that existed here. Moose and Mountain Goats had never lived in the Sierras, and Grizzly Bears had been extirpated a century ago. So while Yosemite may have rivaled Glacier in terms of scenic vistas, it did not deliver in terms of wildlife.

After about a mile, the rest of the group bid us farewell as Seth led us off the trail…directly uphill. We hiked straight up a ridge, through the Lodgepole, for about five minutes before realizing that a sheep biologist’s definition of a “medium hike” differed quite a bit from our own. In fact, it was the hardest hiking I’ve ever done. Following Seth, we left the treeline behind as we realized what we were up against: Mt. Gibbs was only three hundred feet shorter than neighboring Mt. Dana, at 12,700 feet. That was something Yosemite could hold over Glacier—the mountains were taller. Granite Peak, Montana’s tallest, rose only to 12,800 feet. Thankfully, Seth allowed us to take as many breaks as we needed as we scrambled over boulders and scree, heading straight for the summit.

**The life in the alpine zone is certainly some of the most magical on earth—and some of the most imperiled by climate change.**

We did not see any ptarmigan. Nor did we spot any of the alpine raptors, like Prairie Falcon or Golden Eagle, that I’d hoped to glimpse. That isn’t to say that the alpine zone of Mt. Gibbs was devoid of life. Tufts of small grass, brilliant purple and white flowers, and splashes of lime green and blood orange lichen led us all the way to the summit. Insects, too, seemed to live here in abundance, and I spotted species of grasshoppers, spiders, ants and butterflies I’d never seen before. One bird seemed to thrive up here: Gray-crowned Rosy-finches, one of the most extreme bird species on the planet. Rosy-finches flitted past us over the scree, and one particularly cooperative flock picked seeds off of a lingering snowpack near the top of the mountain. These birds breed only in these alpine areas, beyond the reach of almost any other bird species and the trees themselves.

**Not only did we see one of my favorite birds, Gray-crowned Rosy-Finches, atop Mt. Gibbs, they were some of the most approachable birds I’ve ever encountered.**

On our ascent, we stopped about every five hundred meters so that Seth could remove a strange device from his backpack. On one end was a sort of radio which displayed primitive numbers and figures, and on the other was an H-shaped receiver. This revealed how the biologists expected to locate the sheep on these seemingly-endless ridges: radio telemetry. The third time we stopped, Seth let me try out the system, and explained to me how it worked. Apparently, every single collared sheep in the Sierras has their own frequency, like the frequency of a radio station. Thus, if you want to locate an individual, you punch its frequency into the radio. Turning a knob increases the volume, and then the H-shaped part of the device comes into play. I held the “H” above me, facing the sky, and slowly rotated it, searching for a signal. Once I began to hear a faint beep, I turned the “H” towards it, trying to locate exactly which direction that beep was coming from. The louder the beep, the more accurate the direction. And in this case, the beep corresponded to a single ram hiding just beyond a ridge in front of us.

**A Bearded Big Horn Sheep? No, that’s me sporting my new “field biologist look” while using telemetry for the first time! Note Mono Lake a couple of inches to the left of my head!**

Eventually we struggled to the top of Mt. Gibbs, having climbed more than three thousand vertical feet in less than two hours, with no trace of a trail to follow. At the top, we huddled in a small rock shelter someone had constructed, and I signed my name in the “Mountain Registry”, a small notebook housed in a worn, metal box. While I’d like to say that we spent the next hour scanning for sheep, the four of us IBP employees just lounged on the rocks, recovering while Seth did most of the work. Apparently, this was an “easy” day for him—sheep biologists spend most of the summer on five- to ten-day backpacking trips trying to find herds. After recovering a bit and having some snacks, I spent a good amount of time photographing the rosy-finches feeding on the snow around us.

Then it was time to descend. This proved just as difficult as the ascent, as we slowly slid down a scree field for almost an hour before hitting the first trees again. Although we still hadn’t spotted any sheep, we opted to return to the cars. We had work tomorrow and still needed to drive the two and a half hours back to Mi-wuk Village. eBird claimed we had logged nine and a half miles, which meant we had probably hiked closer to twelve, much of that up and down incredibly steep terrain. The survey as a whole, however, was quite productive. The other biologists found at least 32 sheep, including plenty of rams.

**While our crew failed to see any Bighorn Sheep, the other biologists located 32 of these dynamic wild “woolies”.** **Photo disclosure: these are sheep in Glacier National Park (I think).**

Once we got back to the parking lot, legs aching, we thanked Seth for everything and hopped back in the company car. I said goodbye to Yosemite, unsure of when I would return, and after a quick stop at the Mobil station for tacos, we headed home.