Category Archives: Migration

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.

Bitterns Under the Big Sky

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You may have noticed a paucity of posts since my daughter and I returned from Japan. It’s not for a lack of birding action. In fact, the past couple of months have seen our busiest birding in a couple of years. Braden has been strenuously counting eastern songbirds while I have been crisscrossing the state on various writing and speaking assignments, some of which I hope to share with you when I get several deadlines out of the way. Meanwhile, big thanks to our recent guest poster Roger Kohn for stepping in during our delinquence! And now, for today’s story . . .

The second weekend in June, my work took me to Montana Audubon’s Wings Across the Big Sky Festival, to be held in Great Falls. I had received a surprise invitation to speak at the event as well as lead two birding outings to one of Braden’s and my favorite Montana hotspots, Benton Lake National Wildlife Refuge. The festival kicked off on a Friday afternoon, but I cunningly calculated that if I got up early, I could get in a couple of solid birding sessions beforehand on the east side of the divide. I was on the road by 5 a.m. and cautiously drove into the dawn on Hwy 200, headed toward Great Falls. Why cautiously? Because this was the time of greatest risk of striking deer and other animals on the highway. Near Lincoln, in fact, I passed a dead elk and a smashed up car flashing its hazards off to the side of the road. I drove by, but then thought, “Wait. What if someone is still inside of that car?” and quickly turned around. Fortunately, I discovered no bleeding bodies, but it reinforced my caution as I continued my journey.

**On my approach to Freezeout, I espied a Wilson’s Snipe and couldn’t resist pulling over for a photo. Can you see the raindrops?**

The first stop on my birding agenda was Freezeout Lake, a place readers will be familiar with from past posts. Since we began birding, Braden and I have visited Freezeout more than a dozen times—and not just when the lake receives its famous influx of tens of thousands of Snow Geese migrating north in March. Over the years, we had made great discoveries at all times of year, including Clark’s Grebes, Tundra Swans, awesome shorebirds, and our Lifer Short-eared Owl. One bird that had always eluded us? American Bittern.

**At first it’s not much to look at, but Freezeout Lake is a vital resting and breeding location for tens of thousands of Montana birds.**

“I don’t understand it,” Braden told me via telephone the night before I left. “Other people go to Freezeout and see bitterns right in front of them, but we’ve never seen one there.”

“I guess we just haven’t paid our dues,” I said. “But I’ll keep a close eye out for them.”

Despite this promise, I held little hope of seeing one of these secretive birds. For one, they were thinly scattered across the state. Braden and I had heard one in the Swan Valley two years ago, and I had heard another at Bowdoin in 2022, but we had never seen a bittern in Montana, and I didn’t expect to this morning. Nonetheless, I arrived at Freezeout before 8:00 a.m. and eagerly set out along the management area’s dirt roads. Northern Shovelers and Gadwalls sat in the middle of the road, only reluctantly moving out of my way as I approached. Savannah Sparrows and Killdeer called through my open windows. I spotted several Wilson’s Phalaropes and, out on the water, a complement of American White Pelicans and Western Grebes. I especially searched for Short-eared Owls, but not a one was to be seen. After spending half an hour tolerating the mosquitoes, I turned around and made my way back to the beginning of the main driving loop.

I’d never seen so many Western Grebes at Freezeout as I saw last weekend. Surprisingly, I found not a single Clark’s Grebe despite studying more than a dozen possibilities through the scope. Up close, Clark’s are easily distinguished by a more orange-colored bill and the black facial line that rises above the eye, not below it as in this fellow.

Turning left onto the loop, I sharpened my senses as I guided my minivan into an area of thick cattails and brimming canals. Yellow-headed Blackbirds emitted their harsh cacophony and I heard a Sora in the distance. Glancing out my right window, I hit the brakes.

“No way,” I said.

Like most birders, I had been victim to wishful thinking countless times while birding, but as soon as I saw the thing standing out among the cattails a hundred yards away, I knew what it was. American Bittern!

**With the bird’s amazing camouflage,** **I may not have seen this American Bittern if that Red-winged Blackbird hadn’t shouted, “Hey, Dude in the minivan, check this guy out!”**

I turned off the engine, picked up my camera, and quietly climbed out of my minivan. I took several documentation photos and then silently studied this remarkable apparition through my binoculars. American Bitterns truly are bizarre-looking creatures. Grouped with shorebirds, bitterns display some of the most superior camouflage in the bird world. Brown overall, with brown and white stripes running down their long necks, they are famous for their “freeze pose” in which they extend their necks vertically, making them blend in almost perfectly with the cattails or rushes around them. In fact, as I watched, the bittern held this pose for several minutes before lowering its head and looking for food.

As famous as their freeze pose is, their call matches it for bizarreness. A deep guttural sound that some describe as pump-er-lunk, the bird sounds like nothing else in the natural world. The first time Braden and I heard it in the wild, I hardly believed it was real and accused Braden of playing it on his phone. It was real alright, and this morning, to my amazement, the bittern in front of me emitted this sub-woofer sound across the marsh.

**When I first saw this guy, I was hopeful I’d found a Red Knot, which Nick Ramsey had told me were passing through the state. Still, I was not unhappy when my knot untied itself into a Willet!**

After a few minutes, the bird flew away, and I watched it go, still in shock that this bird had decided to grace me with an actual sighting. I knew it could be a long time before I saw another one. Once hunted widely, bitterns continued to decline through the twentieth century due to wetlands loss and degradation, and perhaps pesticides. According to Cornell Labs’ Birds of the World, “Remarkably little is known about the biology of this species.” As I continued driving, though, I hoped that this one-of-a-kind bird would continue to find safety and nesting areas in Montana—even if I never personally got to see one again.

Bear Canyon—Montana’s “Tropical Birding” Paradise

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With this post, I am officially back from Japan—and loving the spring birding around Montana. In this episode, I revisit one of our favorite Montana places to bird, Bear Canyon. As is often the case, I was hot on the heels of one of my nemesis birds, Sagebrush Sparrow. Thanks for following along—and Happy Mother’s Day and Global Big Day!

When I shared my most recent Montana birding list with my friend, Roger, he joked, “Does Montana have secret tropical zones I’m not aware of?” I answered, “It does. It’s called Bear Canyon.”

In all honesty, to call Bear Canyon tropical is a stretch, but it may be the state’s best example of the Big Basin habitat that dominates much of the interior West—and it’s probably the best place to pick up “southern leaning” species that are truly elusive elsewhere in the state. These include Blue-gray Gnatcatcher, Gray Flycatcher, Sage Thrasher, Pinyon Jay, and my nemesis bird, Sagebrush Sparrow. When I was invited for some speaking events in the Billings area in early May, in fact, Bear Canyon immediately popped to mind. Studying the eBird bar charts it looked I might be a tad early for some of the species there—but that didn’t stop me from going for it. I was on the road from Billings by 6:30 and pulled up to a rocky parking spot at the mouth of the canyon just before 8:30. Two gorgeous Lark Sparrows greeted me as I parked. A good omen.

View looking down toward the mouth of Bear Canyon—truly one of Montana’s magical places.

As I hiked up and over a small hump into the canyon, the birds wasted no time revealing themselves. A Rock Wren—my first of the year—belted out its scratchy, repetitive song from the top of a juniper tree, and almost immediately, another song caught my attention. I punched in Sound ID and pumped my fist. “Yeah! Gray Flycatcher!” Moments later, I observed the bird a hundred yards away—the first of half a dozen Gray Flycatchers I would see that morning. Sound ID also recorded Brewer’s Sparrows and Green-tailed Towhees, but since I don’t know their calls and didn’t see either one, I didn’t record them. It also picked up my nemesis, Sagebrush Sparrow—but I think that was an error since to my knowledge they are rarely reported in the canyon itself.

**Seeing Gray Flycatchers was a treat, but to have one pose a reasonably short distance away added greatly to the experience.**

A host of other birds also showed including Chipping Sparrows, Mountain Bluebirds, Mountain Chickadees, and Vesper Sparrows—but that still left some big misses including Blue-gray Gnatcatchers (too early) and Pinyon Jays (probably off in another canyon). Still, it was a spectacular morning, and Bear Canyon was about as pretty a place I could ever hope to have all to myself.

A pair of Mountain Bluebirds definitely added a splash of color to the sagebrush country.

After two hours, I returned to the car and moved onto the next phase of my day—searching for Sage Thrashers and Sagebrush Sparrows. Driving south down a dirt road from the canyon, I remembered Braden’s advice to get out and actually walk through the sagebrush if I really wanted to find the sparrow. I dutifully did this three times. The first time, a jackrabbit about scared the sagebrush out of me! However, I also was rewarded with actual looks at the Brewer’s Sparrows I had been hearing in Bear Canyon proper, which was great. In fact it was the first time I actually got to study these handsome, but subtle, birds and watch them sing.

As drab as they are, Brewer’s Sparrows truly are gorgeous when you give them a close look. They are closely related to Clay-colored Sparrows, a species I have yet to see in 2023. Hey, that rhymes!

My second walk revealed more Brewer’s Sparrows, along with numerous Vesper Sparrows, Horned Larks, and Western Meadowlarks that inundated the area.

Which brings me to my third walk—and you’re going to guess that’s when I finally found a Sagebrush Sparrow, right? Alas, no. As I was walking back toward the car, however, a large bird suddenly burst into the air right in front of me. Its wings sounded like a helicopter. I immediately knew it was some kind of grouse, and guessed it was a Greater Sage-Grouse. Watching it fly away through binoculars, though, I just couldn’t be sure. Darn, I thought. That would have been super cool. Only a few footsteps later, though, SIX of the big birds leaped out of the sage and thundered away—and this time there was no doubt. I caught bold black and white head markings on a couple of the grouse, and even more revealing, black bellies on most of them. I was elated! This was the first time I’d seen Greater Sage-Grouse since birding with Nick and Braden six years before and to find them on my own, well, it felt like an accomplishment.

**I haven’t talked much about it much, but this was some of the best country ever for Western Meadowlarks and Vesper Sparrows—and pretty decent for Horned Larks, too.**

Disappointingly, I saw not a trace of Sage Thrasher, a bird Braden and I had seen here in numbers only three years before. According to the eBird bar charts, they should have been here, too. And the Sagebrush Sparrow? Well, to be honest, I didn’t expect to find one of those on my own. After all, it was a nemesis bird, right? Still, I clung to the memories of the Greater Sage-Grouse as I continued driving down the dirt road, and just tried to appreciate the magnificent sagebrush and snow-covered mountains around me.

Eventually, the road connected with a larger dirt road, and I turned right. I could see the highway up ahead, but coming around a corner I spotted a small bird landing on a bush fifty yards away. Better look, I told myself. I parked the car and whipped my binoculars to my eyes.

Then, I started to get excited.

The bird definitely looked like a sparrow, but with a darker head. It was partly obscured by a branch, so I took a few steps to the left, praying it wouldn’t fly away. It didn’t. And that was enough to confirm it—my first and only Sagebrush Sparrow!

**AT LAST! Right when I’d about given up hope, a gorgeous adult Sagebrush Sparrow decided I’d worked hard enough to find him! Thank you!**

The bird flew across the road to another bush and I pulled the car up a bit closer before again getting out. Now, I had a fairly distant, but wonderful view of the bird as it sang its melodious song. Nemesis no more! I thought and watched it for several minutes before it flew off. I thanked the bird and this remarkable ecosystem, and then headed back to Billings.

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.

FatherSonBirding

Sharing the Passion of Birds and Birding