Category Archives: Game Birds

Getting Serious About State Birds

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!

Gambling on a Grouse-fecta

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FatherSonBirding is a totally free, non-commercial blog that Braden and I write to share our passion for birds and birding, and to help educate others about birds and bird conservation. We do not accept donations, but if you would like to support us in our endeavors, please consider purchasing *new copies* of one or more of Sneed’s books—the new picture book Border Crossings, for example. These books are widely available online or can be ordered from your local independent bookstore. Oh, and they make great holiday gifts! Thank you for your support.

Many of you have followed my woeful failure to see a Spruce Grouse since I began birding ten years ago. This has brought endless shame to my family and led me to self-medicate with copious quantities of chocolate, exploding my waistline and making it difficult to hold up my head (and pants) in the Montana birding community (see our post “Fall Birding in Glacier National Park”).

I have rendered myself such a pitiful specimen of a birder that several of you have kindly reached out with compassionate suggestions of where I might finally find a Spruce Grouse so that I could regain a shred of self-esteem. I had dutifully begun making plans to pursue these suggestions—when I saw that accomplished Lake County birder Braydon Luikart (not to be confused with my son, Braden) had sighted some SPGRs relatively close to me. I contacted Braydon to see if he might be up for a Spruce Grouse expedition, and he cautiously accepted, no doubt wondering if it might damage his birding career to be associated with such a “grouse failure” as myself.

**Though he could at first be confused with my own son, Braydon Luikart is no relation—but generously agreed to lend his terrific birding skills to my search for a Spruce Grouse.**

I picked up Braydon at his house at 8 a.m. as a crescent moon rose into a growing dawn, and he led me to a logging road across from Finley Point on Flathead Lake. In no time, we were climbing up the breathtaking face of the Mission Mountains. Finding a Spruce Grouse sat foremost in our minds, but we began musing that if fortune shined down on us, we might find all three possible grouse: Ruffed, Dusky, and Spruce! This especially appealed to me because—and I don’t know if I should even admit this—I hadn’t seen ANY of them in 2023. I’d spotted almost all of the other game birds in Montana including Greater Sage-Grouse, Sharp-tailed Grouse, and even White-tailed Ptarmigan, but the three in my own backyard? Nada. Zilch. Rien. Shum davar.

Our idea to win the “grouse-fecta” got off to a great start when, after the first five miles, Braydon hollered “Stop! Dusky Grouse!” I hit the brakes of my wife’s CRV which, on Braydon’s sage advice, I’d borrowed in favor of the minivan. “Where?” I asked, already reaching for my camera. Braydon pointed at five chicken-sized birds scurrying up into the brush.

**This female Dusky Grouse kicked off our potential “grouse-fecta” in fine style. Note the color and pattern differences from the female Spruce Grouse below.**

Fortunately, grouse tend to be pretty unreactive, placing far too much faith on their amazing camouflage to escape detection. Four of the grouse made their way into photo-unfriendly territory, but the fifth, a female, posed attractively on a stump. This allowed me to capture one of my best Dusky Grouse photos ever, and afterward, I happily climbed back into the car.

“One down, two to go,” I said.

We continued climbing switchbacks past smoldering stumps and log piles—efforts to reduce slash after recent logging and a forest fire several years ago. At around 5,700 feet, Braydon said, “I hear a Boreal Chickadee.” To be honest, this was almost as exciting as a possible Spruce Grouse. Only the week before, Braydon had been the first person ever to confirm and photograph Boreal Chickadees in Lake County! As for me, I had never seen one outside of Glacier National Park. (See our post “Are You Ready for . . . the QUACH?”)

**The week before our expedition, Braydon became the first person to confirm and photograph Boreal Chickadees in Lake County, Montana. Fortunately, we saw them again on our outing!** **(Photo courtesy of Braydon Luikart)**

We scrambled out of the car and quickly found ourselves in a wonderful mixed flock of both Boreal and Mountain Chickadees, Golden-crowned Kinglets, Red-breasted Nuthatches, Canada Jays, and one of my favorite mixed-flock birds—the secretive Brown Creeper. With my new hearing aids (more on that in another post), I could pick up more call details than I’d heard in years, and Braydon managed a great photo of a BOCH that briefly alighted on the end of a branch. “But where are the Spruce Grouse?” Braydon lamented as we continued picking our way around rocks and slash down the muddy road. “They were all over here last week.”

**I don’t think I’ve ever gotten a good photo of a Brown Creeper—but am always delighted to find one! They commonly accompany mixed-species flocks, but are often overlooked.**

I tried to be philosophical. “I probably just haven’t put in enough time looking for them,” I said. “The grouse gods have not yet deemed me worthy.” Unfortunately, the road continued to deteriorate, with puddles the size of small lakes appearing in front of us. I powered through several of these, but about 18 miles in, I finally began fearing the wrath of my wife Amy if I had to abandon her car in a deep muddy lake in the middle of the mountains. Reluctantly, I performed a five-point turn and we headed back toward civilization. “We’re going to see Spruce Grouse on the way back,” I said, but didn’t really believe it.

We continued to keep our eyes out, but relaxed into conversation about birds, careers, and life. I learned that Braydon is taking a gap semester after high school and plans to pursue a career in wildlife, probably after a degree from the University of Montana. In fact, Braydon asked a number of questions about my son Braden’s plans and what made him choose the University of Maine. As we were chatting amiably, however, I rounded a corner—and saw three shapes fifty yards ahead of us.

I slammed the brakes. “Grouse!”

“Spruce Grouse!” Braydon confirmed.

**As spectacular as male Spruce Grouse are, I gotta say I just love the patterns on this female.**

Sure enough, two females and a male lifted their heads in surprise as we stopped. Unfortunately, as we cautiously got out of the car with our cameras and binoculars, the male and a female ambled into the scrub—but the other female seemed completely unperturbed by our presence. In fact, as we crept forward, the other female joined her, allowing us great photos of both birds. I was especially glad of that because I hadn’t realized how gorgeous the females truly are. As usual, most attention goes to the males, but these females displayed striking stripes and almost golden rufous patterning. True, I would have liked to see a breeding male, but I felt exultant. Not only had The Curse of the Spruce Grouse been vanquished forever, this bird was 998 on my Life List—only two birds away from that magical number 1,000. (See our recent post “From One Nemesis Bird to Another.”)

Elated, we again lapsed into lively conversation as we continued down the road. Only a couple of miles later, however, Braydon again exclaimed, “Stop!” I saw immediately what he was looking at, but it looked suspiciously like a rock.

It wasn’t.

**Strike a pose! This handsome, if overdressed, male Spruce Grouse—my first ever—evidently mistook me for the casting agent of Project Grouse-way.**

There, in the middle of the road, sat another Spruce Grouse—a resplendent male. Even better, this one didn’t flee as we climbed out of the car, and we were able to walk to within twenty yards of it, getting some great photos. After a few minutes, the bird decided it would rather view us from above, so with a few quick flaps of its wings, it skedaddled into a space between two spruce trees. There it stayed, giving us more decent photos before we left it in peace and headed back down the mountain.

**After flying up into the trees, this male Spruce Grouse kept a curious eye on us.**

Alas, we were still one grouse short of our “grouse-fecta”—a Ruffed Grouse. Still, I felt optimistic. Ruffies live down at lower elevations, often in riparian areas, so our chances would improve as we made our way back down to Flathead Lake. We rounded corner after corner expecting to see one—alas to no avail. Our bookie walked away with our fat grouse-fecta bets, an important lesson in getting too grouse-timistic. Braydon, though, redeemed this minor setback by locating one of the first Pacific Loons of the year on nearby Flathead Lake. The bird preened far out on the water, but its gray head clearly showed itself—a wonderful bonus in a day I would long remember.

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.

Festival Report: Wings Across the Big Sky 2023

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In my last post, I mentioned being on my way to Montana Audubon’s 2023 Wings Across the Big Sky festival in Great Falls. After birding Freezeout Lake and Choteau, I could feel my excitement grow. Not only would I get to meet a lot of other birders at the festival, I had been invited to lead two field trips to one of my favorite Montana places to bird: Benton Lake National Wildlife Refuge. Last year, I’d had one of my best birding days ever at Benton Lake, and a couple months later, Braden and I had followed that up with perhaps our best Montana shorebird day ever. What would this wonderful spot hold for us this time?

**The sharp eyes of our intrepid Saturday Benton Lake field crew let no bird escape our detection!**

Saturday, our trip got off to a good start when one of the participants told me about a Burrowing Owl right off the road leading up to the refuge. Driving my intrepid minivan, we turned right onto a muddy track—only to drive right under the owl without seeing it! Fortunately, the two cars behind us were more observant, and we all got great looks at this rarely seen animal before heading to the refuge. Turns out, we would glimpse another BUOW at the refuge itself—but it would be only one of many stars for the day.

I’d never seen a Burrowing Owl atop a telephone pole and as a result drove right under it. Fortunately, the folks following behind us spotted it.

Birding Benton Lake NWR entails two distinct phases: a grasslands phase and a wetlands phase, and today, neither one disappointed. Driving through grasslands on our way to the start of the main loop, we were rewarded with multiple looks at Willets, Marbled Godwits, Long-billed Curlews, and Upland Sandpipers. The Willets and curlews especially put on a show for us, circling around the visitor’s center parking lot, uttering their looping, haunting calls. Thanks to recent rains, the vegetation in the prairie sections seemed especially tall and that probably suppressed one of our main targets, the Chestnut-collared Longspurs, but other birds turned out in force, especially Horned Larks and Savannah Sparrows. When we’d almost reached the turn for the wetlands section, I spotted several large-bodied birds flying low across the horizon—Sharp-tailed Grouse!

No one I know gets tired of Long-billed Curlews, and they’ve become a reliable bird for Braden and me at Benton Lake NWR.

With more water in them, the wetlands ponds sported a different mix of birds than last year. We counted 13 species of ducks, more than twice what I saw last year, but none in huge numbers. Wilson’s Phalaropes were present, but in smaller numbers than last year. While I’d counted 220 American Avocets and 20 Black-necked Stilts last year, today we saw neither species. Fortunately, the Franklin’s Gull colony appeared healthy and intact with at least 1,000 birds, as did the smaller number of White-faced Ibises. I worried when we didn’t see our dependable Black-crowned Night Heron colony—until one of our intrepid crew spotted one when we walked out to the end of the boardwalk during our early lunch break.

**Franklin’s Gulls dominate a whole section of Benton Lake—including, at times, laying claim to the roadway.**

Undoubtedly, one of the stars of the day were the Eared Grebes, who had constructed hundreds of raised nests in the “upper” pond. In fact, our little caravan stopped to break out our spotting scopes and admire this incredible sight for at least ten or fifteen minutes. On our way out, we passed the tree where Braden and I had enjoyed nesting Swainson’s Hawks multiple times over the years. Sure enough, a SWHA parent sat dutifully on a branch watching us as we slowly lumbered by.

It was a great treat to again visit the refuge the following day and I wondered how these two visits would compare. The verdict? Pretty similar. On Sunday we missed the Sharp-tailed Grouse—but again saw the Burrowing Owl, placidly sitting in the middle of the road. We missed the pair of Black Terns we’d seen the day before—but saw far more Forster’s Terns, and finally spotted a lone Black-necked Stilt along with a single Sandhill Crane.

**From a distance, I assumed all of these dark spots out on the water were ducks. Our crew was delighted to discover that most of them were Eared Grebes sitting on nests!**

We wrapped up Sunday’s visit by pulling over at a section of the road with shorter grass, and sure enough, soon spotted a couple of Chestnut-collared Longspurs, doing flight displays above their territories. But my favorite sighting came a few moments later, when we all turned our binoculars on a buteo hawk circling high overhead. The bird had unusual coloring, and we debated what it could be. Swainson’s? Red-tailed? An uncommon Broad-winged Hawk? Finally, my co-pilot for the day, Kevin Cox, called the correct ID: Ferruginous Hawk! I was thrilled. I usually see a FEHA in Montana every year, but it’s not a guarantee—and to see it out in such a glorious spot, and on such a glorious day, and in the company of so many people who appreciated it, well, that perfectly crowned a very memorable festival.

Click here for Saturday’s eBird checklist.

**This Ferruginous Hawk was the perfect bird to cap off a wonderful festival weekend!**

Note: The 2024 Wings Across the Big Sky festival will be held in Helena, Montana, which I’ve always considered to be the best home base for birding in Montana. No matter where you live, I hope you’ll plan on attending, either the first or second weekend in June. You won’t regret it!

Birding and Books: Sneed’s New Picture Book, BORDER CROSSINGS

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My new picture book, Border Crossings, was inspired by Braden’s and my amazing trips birding along the U.S.-Mexico border. Order now through your local bookstore or directly from Charlesbridge Publishing.

Watch the book trailer for Border Crossings now!

If you ever doubt how inspiring birds are to people, just look at the incredible bird-related creativity writers, artists, and photographers pour forth into the world. I plead guilty to be among their ranks as birds have inspired at least half a dozen of my books and countless articles. Sometimes, though, birds themselves are not the topic. Instead, my pursuit of birds gives me another idea. Such is the case with my new picture book, Border Crossings.

**From *Border Crossings*, illustrated by Howard Gray**.

During the past seven years, Braden and I have been fortunate to be able to bird along the U.S.-Mexico border at least four times: twice in Arizona, and once each in Texas and California. These trips have been among the most inspiring of our birding lives, not only providing glimpses of hundreds of remarkable birds, but introducing us to the rich human culture that spans the border region. When our former president announced plans to build a steel barrier the full length of our border, it rang alarm bells for numerous reasons. For one thing, it seemed a giant slap in the face to Mexico, a country we depend on and take advantage of in many ways. I also worried how a wall would impact the myriad animal species that regularly cross back and forth across the border.

San Bernardino NWR is one of many places we birded in 2016 that was wall-free. Now, a giant steel barrier both prevents many animals from moving freely through their natural home—it directly endangers several officially listed endangered fishes. **To read about that click here.**

Though we humans have drawn an artificial line separating the U.S. and Mexico, the fact is that continuous ecosystems run through this remarkably biodiverse region. In these ecosystems, animals routinely cross back and forth from one country to another. Many do this in the course of their daily routines while others cross mostly during annual migrations. The steel “bollard” wall, however, has gaps only four inches wide—small enough to exclude hundreds of animal species. Even some birds—think game birds, roadrunners, and Ferruginous Pygmy-owls—probably turn back from this monstrosity. That’s not to mention javelinas, pronghorn, tortoises, hares, wolves, and dozens of other larger animals. Clearly, in their rush to build a political statement, no one in charge gave wildlife the slightest thought.

One of many Arizona border communities that was wall-free during our 2016 trip is now permanently divided by an ugly barrier—one that is doing untold damage not only to these communities but to wildlife.

Border Crossings is my attempt to raise awareness of this important issue. To illustrate the dilemma, the story follows two ocelots. These beautiful wild cats live in both Texas and Arizona as well as Mexico, and I decided to show the plight of one that is free to cross the border without obstruction—and one that is blocked by the imposing steel barrier. I was fortunate that my publisher hired the talented Howard Gray to illustrate the book. His remarkable illustrations really bring the story to life and, I hope, make readers young and old think about the often catastrophic consequences of simple-minded solutions.

One problem I had writing the story is that wall construction proceeded at breakneck speed even as we were going through the editing process. On our last trip to Arizona, in fact, Braden and I were dismayed to see this ugly barrier stretch across several regions that had been beautifully wall-free during our previous trip in 2016. Rather than trying to rewrite the story, I explain the situation in the backmatter. Realistically, I don’t see the wall coming down anytime soon, but I hope Border Crossings will help create momentum to at least build numerous wildlife crossings through it. If you’d like to make a difference, share your concerns with your U.S. Senators and Congressmen. As great men have stated in the past, only if we stay silent can tyranny—and in this case, horrible ideas—triumph.