Bruce M. Beehler’s Flight of the Godwit: Tracking Epic Shorebird Migrations (Smithsonian Books, 2025)
Any birder who has aspired to learn about shorebirds will find a welcome companion in Bruce M. Beehler’s new book, Flight of the Godwit: Tracking Epic Shorebird Migrations. Shorebirds, after all, can be considered somewhat mythical, mysterious beings. Not only do many of them make remarkable annual migrations covering tens of thousands of kilometers, quite a few are notoriously difficult to identify. Certainly, Braden and I realized we had entered a more advanced stage of learning when we started to search out and try to identify shorebirds and, in fact, we both often still struggle with figuring out some of the more difficult shorebird species. Yet the more we encounter and learn about these birds, the more we love them—and that same kind of passion radiates from Beehler’s words as he sets out on his own journeys to observe and learn more about these birds.
In Montana, we are lucky to host three of the “Magnificent Seven” shorebirds as breeders—including Marbled Godwits, one of the focal birds of Beehler’s new book.
In Flight of the Godwit, Beehler recounts a series of recent adventures across the US and Canada to follow and observe shorebirds as they migrate north, stop over at resting and staging sites, settle on breeding grounds, and then head south again for their long non-breeding seasons. Although Beehler discusses all of our North American shorebirds at some point, he clearly targets what he calls the Magnificent Seven: Hudsonian Godwit, Marbled Godwit, Bar-tailed Godwit, Long-billed Curlew, Whimbrel, Bristle-thighed Curlew, and Upland Sandpiper. As he shares his encounters, he sprinkles in liberal amounts of natural history and personal experiences about these birds to make the book much more than a birder’s travelogue.
This Marbled Godwit checked us out as we were scoping shorebirds in Westby last summer.
That said, the travelogue aspects of the book are a big part of what fascinated me about this tale. Even after eleven years of birding, my shorebird experiences have been much more limited than I would like. Although my home in Montana is fortunate to host a number of breeding shorebirds—including three of the Magnificent Seven—for most shorebirds, we get only brief glimpses of them as they pass through in spring and fall. Partly because of this, Braden and I have especially sought out shorebirds on our out-of-state travels to Texas, New England, and the West Coast. Sigh. It is never enough.
It always surprises new birders that some of our largest shorebirds actually breed in grasslands—including Long-billed Curlews.
As I followed Beehler up through the Midwest during spring migration and around Alaska during breeding season, his experiences filled in giant gaps in my own experience with these remarkable birds. I got a better sense of where the birds stop to refuel and rest, and my vague impressions of their nesting territories and habits were sharpened by Beehler’s actual observations and descriptions. Many times, I found myself nodding my head thinking, Yeah, I know what he’s talking about or Oh, so that’s what they’re doing. All of this felt especially satisfying since there’s a good chance I will never experience many of Beehler’s destinations for myself.
As much time as I try to spend with shorebirds, it is never enough. Flight of the Godwit helped fill in many of the experiences I probably will never have for myself.
Those who will appreciate Flight of the Godwit the most probably are birders who have already spent time observing shorebirds and struggling over their identifications. Those with limited shorebird experience may find themselves getting a bit lost as Beehler throws out bird names that may seem a bit abstract without solid brain images to connect them to. Still, there’s a good chance that even beginning “shorbers” will find that Beehler’s tales of adventure excite them to plunge more deeply into this remarkable set of birds. As for intermediate and advanced birders—especially those who may never get to Alaska or follow spring migration through the Midwest—I highly recommend this intriguing book that is not only a valuable educational document, but a labor of love with which many of us can relate.
You can order Flight of the Godwit from almost any outlet that sells books—but why not visit your local independent bookstore and order it there? Another easy way to do this is through the online website Bookshop.org.
The following is a written version of a presentation Braden gave to the UMaine Birding Club at last Thursday’s meeting.Warning: Do Not Read unless you have a sense of humor!
In the 1920s, the General Federation of Women’s Clubs decided that every state should have a bird to represent it, a bird of its very own. A diverse array of groups, including women’s clubs, schoolchildren, and state legislatures voted on the state birds, eventually giving each state a bird (well, almost every state, and we’ll get to that). But put quite simply, most of the state bird selections are bad, and I’m not the only birder who believes this. Almost anyone with knowledge of North America’s avifauna agrees that the people who selected the state birds of the United States of America did a woefully horrible job. Let’s go over why that is.
In order to call a state bird “bad,” you must first determine what makes a state bird “good.” I designed the following set of criteria expressly for this purpose:
Each state must have a state bird.
The state bird must be a real bird.
The state bird must be wild.
The state bird must be unique to, native to, and representative of that state.
The state bird name must not be offensive or insulting to the vast majority of American citizens.
These criteria should be easy to fulfill, but after analyzing each and every state bird, I determined that a mere thirteen of the state birds qualify as “good.” Willow Ptarmigan, for example, is the state bird of Alaska. Willow Ptarmigans are real, wild birds found across the entire state. Furthermore, they represent their state in a way no other state birds could. To wit, much of Alaska in summer is brown—and so is the Willow Ptarmigan. In winter, Alaska is white—and so is Willow Ptarmigan. Finally, their name doesn’t offend anyone. This, then, is a great example of what a state bird can and should be.
The Scissor-tailed Flycatcher is a stunning example of a great state bird. Good job Oklahoma—though how Texas overlooked it is beyond us.
Twelve other states met my criteria, due to their well-thought-out, unique selections. These include Georgia, with the Brown Thrasher, a widespread backyard bird with a great singing voice, and Oklahoma, with the Scissor-tailed Flycatcher, a bird that only breeds in a limited part of the country that includes Oklahoma. It also sports striking colors and an impressive caboose. The other states with good state birds are: Arizona (Cactus Wren); Colorado (Lark Bunting); Hawaii (Nene); Louisiana (Brown Pelican, my dad’s favorite bird); Maryland (Baltimore Oriole); Minnesota (Common Loon); New Hampshire (Purple Finch); New Mexico (Greater Roadrunner); South Carolina (Carolina Wren); and finally, Vermont, with Hermit Thrush as its avian emblem.
New Mexico’s Greater Roadrunner offers yet another excellent state bird example—though we saw this one behind a gas station in Tucson, Arizona.
The bad news? THIRTY-SEVEN states fail the “good bird” criteria, which, honestly, is ridiculous. Let’s take a closer look at how various states have failed in their selections, one criterion at a time.
CRITERION #1: EACH BIRD MUST HAVE A STATE BIRD.
Now, you’d think this one would be easy, right? The General Federation of Women’s Clubs said that each state should have a bird to represent it, and so all fifty of the states should have followed suit, right? Wrong. Pennsylvania, of all places, failed this most simple of tests. I had a job in Pennsylvania last summer, and loved it. I got to know the state’s avifauna well, with its dozens of breeding warblers and melodic Wood Thrushes and goofy Scarlet Tanagers. Golden-winged Warblers have leapt to the top of my all-time favorite birds list because of what I experienced—so you can imagine my utter disappointment upon finding out that the Keystone State completely lacks a “Keystone bird.”
Now, Pennsylvania does have a state game bird. Is this the same? No. No, it is not. South Carolina’s state game bird is the Northern Bobwhite. That is different from its state bird, the Carolina Wren. Georgia’s state game bird is the Wild Turkey, while its state bird is the Brown Thrasher. State birds should represent the cultural and ecological aspects of the regions they are chosen for. State game birds, on the other hand, are birds that people most like to shoot at. So no, I don’t care how adorable a Ruffed Grouse’s neck feathers look during the breeding season. It is the state game bird of Pennsylvania, but it is not the state bird. Sigh.
As much as we love Ruffed Grouse, we’re sorry Pennsylvania: it does not count for your state bird!
CRITERION #2: THE STATE BIRD MUST BE A REAL BIRD.
This is what I got the most flack about during my birding club presentation, and it was mainly due to the two club members from New Jersey. Go figure. So let’s talk about goldfinches. There are three goldfinches native to North America. One is the American Goldfinch, one of the continent’s most widespread species. Another is the Lesser Goldfinch, found in the arid southwest (and now, likely thanks to climate change, parts of Montana). The third breeds only in California and winters in the desert—the Lawrence’s Goldfinch. American, Lesser, Lawrence’s. Three goldfinches. Just three.
So why is New Jersey’s state bird the EASTERN Goldfinch? That’s not a thing! It does not exist! You might say, “Well, Braden, I’m from New Jersey and think I’m pretty cool and would like to inform you that Eastern Goldfinch is actually the subspecies of American Goldfinch found in New Jersey.” My response: “Well Mr. and/or Mrs. New Jersey, I didn’t think I had to clarify that a state bird must be a full species!” Your state bird cannot be an obscure subspecies, and beyond that, the people who picked the Eastern Goldfinch didn’t even know what subspecies are. They likely chose it because back then, American Goldfinches were known as Eastern Goldfinches in New Jersey. Well, guess what? It’s 2023 now, not 1923, so wake up and change your state bird’s name. Oh, and by the way, Iowa did the same thing! Thankfully, no western states would make this kind of ridiculous mis—
Oh, wait a minute. I forgot about Washington. Its state bird is the WILLOW Goldfinch! Did I stutter when I said there were three goldfinches in the U.S.? Eastern is not among them, and Willow most certainly is not! All this being said, these errors are mostly due to changes in bird names over the last century and states not updating those bird names. I was joking about what I said above, concerning Mr. and Mrs. New Jersey. Mostly. Let’s move on.
Hello, New Jersey? These are Lawrence’s Goldfinches—actual, real birds. So-called “Eastern Goldfinches” are not!
CRITERION #3: THE STATE BIRD MUST BE WILD.
Domesticated animals do not represent the unique land that each state contains. We brought them here for our own reasons, and they exist here simply to serve us. Wild birds are not like that. And so what was Rhode Island thinking when it selected a breed of chicken, the Rhode Island Red? Granted, Rhode Island doesn’t have much land to work with, but the state still has recorded more than 300 species of native, wild birds. Were all of the state legislators hungry the day they picked a chicken? Was Colonel Sanders sitting amongst these legislators, throwing feathers at them and offering to fund their next campaigns for office? Whatever the reason, Rhode Island somehow did a better job than Delaware, which not only selected a chicken, but picked the Delaware Blue Hen, something that isn’t even an officially recognized breed. Still, we’re not going to honor either selection with a photo.
CRITERION #4: THE STATE BIRD MUST BE UNIQUE TO, NATIVE TO, AND REPRESENTATIVE OF THAT STATE.
Oh, boy. Here we go. Up to this point, we’ve had a few failures per criterion—a state without a state bird here, two chickens there—but things are about to ramp up.
Let’s start with a state bird that isn’t *that* bad: California’s state bird, the California Quail. It’s found across the state, it’s familiar, it’s endearing, and it even has the state’s name embedded in it. There are seven birds named for the state of California, and I have to admit that the California Quail was a better choice than most of the others: the California Thrasher, Scrub-Jay, Gnatcatcher, Towhee and Gull. The quail is the second best California bird. But one overshadows it, one of North America’s largest birds, a critically endangered species that soars between the canyons of Big Sur State Park and over the rocky red pillars of Pinnacles National Park. This bird almost went extinct, thanks to DDT among other things, and is only still with us because of the work of Rachel Carson and hundreds of other hard-working conservationists. There’s really little to debate; the California Condor should, hands down, be California’s state bird. It may not be as widespread as the quail, but with persistent conservation efforts and luck, it may be again someday.
During our Big Year, my dad and I were lucky enough to see California Condors—a slam-dunk for California’s state bird!
Leaping down from that majestic image, I present to you Utah’s state bird: the California Gull. Do you see anything wrong here? Not only did Utah select a bird named after another state, it probably picked the worst of the California-named birds. The choice involves Mormons and agriculture and hordes of grasshoppers and gulls appearing like angels in the rising sun to gobble up those grasshoppers and save the day. Still, human agricultural practices and ravenous insects are no reason to pick a state bird named after another state. Utah, you can do better. Maybe a project for Mitt Romney, now that he’s retiring?
And that brings us to the repeats. Maine and Massachusetts share Black-capped Chickadee as their state bird. Is Black-capped Chickadee a bad state bird? No. They’re one of North America’s most familiar birds and have adorable, curious personalities. In fact, they’re probably on my fairly long list of favorite birds. That said, a state bird should be unique. My solution? Give Mass the chickadee. Maine has a variety of excellent options, including boreal birds like Spruce Grouse and seabirds like Razorbill. And of course the Atlantic Puffin is plastered on every sign, billboard and advertisement in the coastal part of the state—why not make it the state bird?
Eastern Bluebird represents both New York and Missouri, creating the same problem. Again, there is nothing wrong with the bluebird as a state bird, but only one of these states should claim it. Idaho and Nevada both have Mountain Bluebird, and American Robin is the state bird of three states: Connecticut, Wisconsin and Michigan.
Northern Mockingbird represents five states, and it gets worse, because they include two of best birding states in the country: Texas and Florida. Both states receive a phenomenal array of species within their borders, with Florida recording more than 500 species and Texas surpassing 600. Texas is home to the endangered prairie-chickens that dance in the shortgrass prairie, an endemic warbler and vireo found in the hill country, dozens of colorful Mexican species, and just about every bird that migrates into or out of North America. Florida, meanwhile, holds two birds that feed exclusively on snails, a trio of birds found only in the endangered Longleaf Pine Savanna ecosystem, and a completely endemic corvid named after the state itself: the Florida Scrub-Jay. And yet, what did they choose? The Northern Mockingbird—along with Tennessee, Mississippi and Arkansas. As a humorous aside, I found this defense from an op-ed in a Florida newspaper arguing for the mockingbird and against the scrub-jay as the state’s bird: “The mockingbird is a well-established, independent, prolific bird that doesn’t need government protection or our tax dollars to survive.”
Don’t get us wrong, people. We LOVE Northern Mockingbirds, but don’t you know you’re not supposed to copy off of other people’s exams?
Believe it or not, Northern Mockingbird isn’t even the most commonly chosen state bird. Western Meadowlark is the state bird of six states, including Montana and Oregon, two diverse states that mean a lot to me. I’ve had a lot of fun experiencing the birdlife of these two places over the last decade (yes, my dad and I have been birding for a decade as of this January), and Western Meadowlark is an icon of the West, but again, six states do not need to have the same bird. For Montana I might suggest Black Swift, Sprague’s Pipit, or Chestnut-collared Longspur. Varied Thrush would make a stunning bird to grace Oregon’s flags and signs.
And that brings us to the Northern Cardinal, the state bird that just won’t stop. After Kentucky chose it in the early 1920s, six more states followed suit. I mean, it’s fun and red, but seriously??? With all the other great birds to choose from, the lack of creativity amongst these states is mind-boggling.
The selection of Northern Cardinal by seven, count ’em, SEVEN states proves that a) state bird committees are lazy or b) Americans have an outsized love of Santa Claus and his red outfit.
Oh, and as for the “native to” part of this criterion? South Dakota’s state bird is the Ring-necked Pheasant—a native of China, not the United States. Not even the same continent! Note to South Dakota politicians: you may not want to use this bird as part of your political platform. Which, finally, brings us to . . .
CRITERION #5: THE STATE BIRD MUST NOT BEAR A NAME OFFENSIVE TO LARGE GROUPS OF PEOPLE.
This is a no-brainer, and my dad will address it in an upcoming post.
For now, this post is longer than expected so I’ll wrap up swiftly. The state birds are bad, plain and simple. Most need to be changed. Do I think they ever will be? No. Meanwhile, if this post raised your blood pressure (and it should!), please let us know what you think your state bird should be!
A tradition Braden and I have formed over the years is to make top birds lists after any big trip or, as this year, for our entire year of birding. This probably stems from the many hours I listened to Casey Kasem counting down the American Top 40 every weekend as a youth. Our own “Top 40” lists have diverged a bit since Braden is now on the East Coast for most of the year—but this year we still managed to have a lot of birding adventures together, and so have a lot of common birds on our list. It’s funny, though, how some birds we might have been super excited about when we first saw them often drift lower on the list. I suppose it’s like being super excited about Barry Manilow when you first heard him—and then realizing you could be listening to the likes of the Rolling Stones, Neil Young, and John Lee Hooker. Anyway, we thought you might enjoy our Top 10 birds of 2022—and hope you might share some of your own!
# 10
Coming in at Number 10 for Braden was the Florida Scrub-Jay, which is remarkably vulnerable in Florida, but Braden got to see with his birding buddy Nick Ramsey on their epic Spring Break Florida adventure. Read about it here. Sneed’s #10 was an unlikely Cape May Warbler—his Lifer—that he spotted in front of the house of his good friends Mollie and Craig Bloomsmith in Atlanta this fall.
Florida Scrub-Jays are the only bird species entirely restricted to Florida.
#9
Braden had excellent adventures with Northern Saw-whet Owls while out in California, running into some adorable juveniles while thrashing through the woods during his job with the Institute for Bird Populations. Elegant Trogon finished #9 on Sneed’s list—an exotic bird if there ever was one! And yet, both Braden and Sneed wondered why this bird didn’t finish higher on either of their lists. Probably just too much on the beaten birding path. (Photo at top of the blog.)
Non-stop birding for his job throughout the summer led Braden to a remarkable encounter with these juvenile Northern Saw-whet Owls.
Zone-tailed Hawks are well-known mimics of Turkey Vultures and often hang out with them—which is where we spotted this one at Madera Canyon, Arizona; only our second ZTHA ever.
#7
Ah, who doesn’t love a Swallow-tailed Kite—especially one that swoops right over your head? Braden obviously DOES, as yet another bird from his Florida trip snagged a Top Ten spot. Sneed, meanwhile, went with the shockingly beautiful Scott’s Oriole for Lucky Number 7. He and Braden both fell in love with these birds, and were lucky enough to see them several times on their Arizona adventures. In fact . . .
Braden never tired of seeing Swallow-tailed Kites on his and Nick’s epic Florida adventure.
#6
Scott’s Oriole grabbed Braden’s Number 6 while Sneed went with Sulphur-bellied Flycatcher, also in Arizona, in a case that he couldn’t quite explain. “There was just something mysterious and intriguing about that bird,” he was quoted as telling a New York Times reporter.
Though relatively widespread in the Southwest, Scott’s Oriole is a bird Braden and I wondered if we’d ever really get to see—or even if it really existed. It does!
#5
Unfortunately, the same New York Times reporter caught Sneed cheating for Number 5, as he listed THREE birds tied for #5: Mexican Whip-poor-will, Whiskered Screech-Owl, and Elf Owl. “How can you possibly justify this?” demanded the reporter. “Well, I only ever heard these three birds, but we listened to them on a magical night in Portal, walking down a darkened road. It’s just a night that Braden and I won’t ever forget.” Meanwhile Braden went with his many amazing experiences with Prairie Warblers this year for his #5 spot, seeing them throughout Florida, including the Everglades, in Maine, and during the Collard Family’s epic New York City trip in May.
It blew Braden’s mind to learn that Prairie Warblers breed in the mangroves of Florida.
#4
The night walk in Portal also left a big impression on Braden, giving him his Number 4 in the form of Mexican Whip-poor-will. Sneed, meanwhile, went with Red-faced Warbler, spotted just a few miles and a couple thousand feet away—the first, and still only, RFWA the father-son duo has ever seen.
Another fairly common Southwest bird that had eluded us until this trip, the Red-faced Warbler immediately captured our hearts. This is still the only we have ever seen.
#3
Number 3 is getting into some Serious Birds, and Braden selected Spotted Owl for his. Not only did Sneed and Braden both see them for the first time in the Chiricahuas, Braden got to see the California subspecies several times during his summer job. Sneed went with his recently self-found Long-tailed Duck—the first male he had ever seen—and one he discovered pretty much in his backyard near Missoula.
When you find a bird by yourself, it naturally ranks higher in a Year List. Such was the case with this male Long-tailed Duck Sneed found near Frenchtown last fall.
#2
Braden paid for his Number 2 bird, Long-tailed Jaeger (a second cousin to former lead singer for the Rolling Stones) with repeated upchucking over the side of the boat during his summer pelagic boat trip out of Half Moon Bay. After cavorting with a bunch of Sabine’s Gulls, however, this bird took flight and then passed only ten feet above Braden’s head. He celebrated by once again barfing into the sea. Sneed opted for White-tailed Ptarmigan, just one of the coolest birds on the planet, seen during his and Braden’s stunning hike up to Piegan Pass in Glacier National Park in August.
Blurry photo notwithstanding (or puking as was the case), this Long-tailed Jaeger flew into Braden’s #2 spot for the year.
Drum Roll . . . And their Number 1s are . . .
#1
The adventure and thrill of seeking out and finally finding a LeConte’s Thrasher on the east side of the Sierras stayed with Braden strongly enough to make it his Number 1 Bird of 2022! Remarkably, Spotted Owl, which had been only #4 on Sneed’s Arizona Trip list mounted an epic comeback to grab his Number 1 spot!
Braden’s #1 for 2022: LeConte’s Thrasher!Sneed’s #1 for 2022: Spotted Owl
Thanks for tuning in as we’ve relived our top birds. Be sure to click on the links to get the full accounts, and may 2023 generate a memorable list for you, too!
Well, another great year of birding has passed for Braden and me—and we hope for you, too. Both of us had remarkable experiences the likes of which we’d never had before, and in the process once again broke our previous Big Year records—I, accidentally, and Braden with determination and grit. As you enjoy Braden’s year-end recap, we want to tell you how much we appreciate your interest in our adventures over the years. In 2022 we smashed viewership for our blog with more than 7,000 views for the first time, bringing our total to more than 21,000 views since we first began writing this blog (gasp) five years ago. We have never had any goals with the blog except to share our love of birding, provide some education about birds, and encourage a will to protect them. With that in mind, we don’t know how long we’ll continue writing it, but as long as you all keep checking in, chances are good that we’ll stay with it, too. Happy 2023 and may birds continue to grace your lives!
Roaring winds, carrying hordes of gulls and Northern Gannets with them, ripped past Schoodic Point as I stood on the wave-battered rocks. The sky was beginning to brighten, and a few other people had made an appearance, including a guy in the parking lot with a spotting scope who I’m pretty sure was counting migrating sea ducks. I had no particular need to talk to him. Instead I was content to stare at the sea, reflecting on one of the most memorable weekends I’d had in a long time.
One of the fun things about returning to Maine for fall semester was hitting the Cornfield Loop and seeing tons of fall warblers, including this Palm Warbler.(See also warbler photos below.)
I was several hours away from the end of my EES 217 class, a one-credit course completely confined to the past two and a half days. During this time, I and a group of like-minded students had designed projects relating to the ecology of the Schoodic Peninsula, a part of Acadia National Park. My group was chosen to study the impact that humans were having on Acadia’s saltmarshes, and we tackled this issue by wading out into the marshes around the peninsula and collecting data on trash, invasive species (specifically a tall grass called Phragmites) and erosion. Yesterday we had arrived back at the Schoodic Institute, our home for the weekend, to begin analyzing our data, and later today we would be presenting our project to the public, all under the guidance of the head of the University of Maine Ecology and Environmental Sciences Department, Katharine Ruskin.
The first Rusty Blackbird I’d seen in six years, also on the Cornfield Loop, was a key ingredient to hitting my Big Year goal.
The fact that I’d been doing science all weekend wasn’t the only great thing about this class. The food was great— welcome relief from dining hall food—and the people were amazing. It was the first time I had been surrounded by like-minded people in a long time, people who cared deeply about conservation and the environment. No one knew each other whatsoever on the Friday that we left, but by Sunday night I felt like I had made some really great friends. I talked to everyone I possibly could during the brief breaks we had to be social, including on Saturday night, when we all grouped together to do icebreakers for a few hours, and Sunday morning, when we all walked out to see the sunrise at Schoodic Point. It truly was an incredible experience.
I was especially proud to pick out this juvenile Iceland Gull from a flock of Herring Gulls at the UMaine campus this fall.
Now, as I stood on the rocky cliffs above the Atlantic (half an hour after everyone else had gone back to eat breakfast), I spotted a tiny gull fly by—one with a yellow bill and tiny black wingtips.
“Kittiwake!” I yelled, to no one in particular.
Black-legged Kittiwake was not a bird I had been expecting to see on this trip, or this year for that matter, and had the distinction of being my 498th bird species for the year.
After my dad’s and my amazing shorebirding and ptarmigan experiencein August, I had arrived back on the University of Maine’s campus with low expectations—500 birds for the yearwas within reach, but unlikely since I had only 484 species and didn’t know where 16 more could possibly come from. I took advantage of my campus’s great location during the month of September, however, circling the campus’s Cornfield Loop as often as possible to look for warblers as they migrated south from their breeding grounds in the boreal forest. During that month, I added six species of warblers to my year list: Blackburnian, Bay-breasted, Canada, Cape May, Blackpoll and Tennessee. I also saw the first Rusty Blackbirds and Scarlet Tanagers that I’d seen in six years. Suddenly, my year list passed 490. A trip to St. John, New Brunswick with my girlfriend added White-rumped Sandpiper to my ABA list, and in late October, my friend Wesley Hutchens volunteered to drive me to Lake Sebasticook to see two long-staying Hudsonian Godwits, which I got to watch through fellow Montana birder Ed Harper’s spotting scope. And then, on November 6th, I saw those Black-legged Kittiwakes, cruising by Schoodic Point, and was suddenly two birds away from 500 with two months left.
During a long weekend in New Brunswick, Canada, I encountered the largest flock of White-rumped Sandpipers I’d ever seen.
I was not to be deceived by that seemingly long amount of time remaining, however. There just weren’t that many possibilities left, and the birds were leaving. American Golden-Plovers were making brief appearances around the state, but my chances of finding one were slim. Rare wintering birds like Glaucous Gulls and King Eiders also were things I needed on my year list, but again, there was no easy way to find them. Besides, my class load had picked up significantly, and the time I had allotted for birding diminished with every day.
Thanks to Ed Harper and his spotting scope, I picked up my Lifer Hudsonian Godwits in late October at Sebasticook Lake, about an hour away from Orono.
And yet, in mid-November, a local birder reported a Snow Goose from a farmer’s field in Bangor, Maine. The next day, people went to see it, and apparently the identification had changed to Ross’s Goose. Wesley Hutchens went that morning, and reported back to me as I was getting out of my Honors Lecture: it wasn’t a Snow Goose or a Ross’s Goose. It was both. And I needed both for the year, which was ironic given that had I been in Montana, I likely would have picked them up months earlier. I couldn’t resist, but I also couldn’t get there. I didn’t have a car.
Wes solved that problem. “Dude, you’re going to get these geese. I might be late to class, but we gotta get you these geese.”
Needless to say, Wesley Hutchens had been responsible for a large chunk of the birds I’d seen this fall, and I’m very grateful to him for that. We drove the fifteen minutes from campus, pulling over near an abandoned church across the road from a large field, and there they were. Two differently-sized white geese, standing right next to each other. It was almost too easy. And yet, maybe it was a reward for all of the time I’d put into getting the other 498 birds I’d seen in 2022. I’d seen a lot of birds in 2022.
Who would have thought my 499th (Ross’s Goose) and 500th (Snow Goose) birds of the year would be standing right next to each other—and only a few miles down the road?
Tennessee Warbler, Cornfield LoopCape May Warbler, Cornfield Loop
Then, it was off to Southeastern Arizona, a region that was already wilting under ninety-degree temperatures during the middle of the day. Thoughts of Spotted Owls and Scott’s Orioles accompanied us as we crossed the border into southern California, then up the coast, across the Central Valley into the Sierras, where the town of Twain Harte became my home base for three months. It was there that I’d met Sam Darmstadt, Miles Carlile and Ivara Goulden, amazing people with whom I shared amazing experiences throughout the summer. We camped in the hottest desert in the world, we climbed one of California’s tallest peaks, we set off into the formidable Pacific Ocean in search of lifers. If you want to know what wildlife we saw during these adventures, well, there are posts about each and every one of them!
Despite all of the great adventures I’ve had this year, I never tire of being home and enjoying Montana’s birds, including the Bohemian Waxwings flying around our neighborhood.
And now, flash-forward to now, December 26th, 2022. I’m back home in Missoula for a few more weeks, then I head back to Maine to kick-off another year. My goals? I don’t have any numbers in mind, but I would like to see a Northern Pygmy-Owl while I’m still out west. Learning the Eastern wood-warblers by song would also be awesome, should I get a summer job in New England somewhere.
But what about the birds of 2022? What were my dad and I’s top ten, or top twenty? You’ll just have to stay tuned!
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.
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!
