After my morning exploring Peveto Woods (see last post), I had intended to visit another favorite coastal Texas location, Sabine Woods (see “Going Cuckoo for Fall Warblers in Texas”). Alas, my long previous travel day caught up with me so I decided to grab a siesta back at my hotel in Winnie. Besides, it didn’t look like the warblers and other migrants were showing up in large numbers, and I reasoned that I wasn’t likely to see much more at Sabine Woods than I’d seen at Peveto that morning. Instead, that afternoon I decided to visit another Texas favorite of Braden’s and mine: Anahuac National Wildlife Refuge.
Braden during our first visit to Anahuac NWR in 2016.
The refuge lies about halfway between Winnie and High Island, and Braden and I had many fond memories of it. During our Big Year in 2016, we’d seen our first Scissor-tailed Flycatcher here, along with our first Common Yellowthroat. I especially liked driving a route called the Shoveler Pond Loop. This afternoon, I didn’t expect any major surprises, but it was a pleasant way to watch Roseate Spoonbills, Common Gallinules, and a variety of other water birds. As I approached the refuge entrance, however, I got my first major surprise: the refuge had a new name! Only in the past few weeks, Anahuac had been renamed the Jocelyn Nungaray NWR. I later looked up how the name change had come about. I like to keep this blog politics-free, but I will just say that the new name resulted from both a tragic story and crass political shenanigans that apparently caught everyone off-guard. Feel free to look it up yourself and draw your own conclusions.
The good news? Shoveler Pond Loop looked better than I’d ever seen it! The loop consists of a 2.5-mile road that circumnavigates a 300-acre wetlands, and the last time I’d visited, in 2021, the latter seemed clogged with vegetation. Not so today. A large area at the loop’s beginning had been cleared out to create wonderful habitat for wading and dabbling birds and as I proceeded, I noticed many other revived sections as well. In preparation to write this post, I called the refuge to make sure that I wasn’t imagining things, and Park Ranger Chris Campbell confirmed that a couple of years ago, they had drained the wetlands and taken steps to remove large areas of cane grass.
Shoveler Pond Loop is definitely one of my Top 5 “car birding” routes in the United States.
The results looked terrific. As I began making my way around the loop, I immediately noticed large numbers of Black-necked Stilts and dowitchers—probably Long-billed, according to Campbell. Both Greater and Lesser Yellowlegs made a good show of it, too, and it wasn’t long before I began obsessing over some smaller shorbs. I eventually IDed two of these as Dunlins, and was especially pleased to find a Least Sandpiper as well. Alligators also seemed to relish the new-and-improved loop, and I watched with amusement as Black-necked Stilts nonchalantly probed the shallows only a few feet from the six- or eight-foot crocodilians.
Uh, Mr. Black-necked Stilt, have you looked over your shoulder lately?
I soon found a great collection of waders including Roseate Spoonbills, Tricolored Herons, Snowy Egrets, and both White and White-faced Ibises. It was when I turned the first corner, however, that the real excitement began.
“Uh, just where do you think you’re landing, Mr. Tricolored Heron? Us Neotropic Cormorants and the herps over there were here first.”
First up? A kind of duck neither Braden nor I had ever seen before: Fulvous Whistling Ducks! “Wow! Lifer!” I exclaimed out loud. For some reason, it never occurred to me that I would see these ducks, but there they were—sitting only fifty feet from their compadres, Black-bellied Whistling Ducks! And the hits were just getting started.
My first lifer of the day, Fulvous Whistling Ducks.Black-bellied Whistling Ducks are much more common than their Fulvous congeners. They are easily recognizable in flight by the contrasting black and white stripes running the lengths of their wings.
As I rounded the second corner, a narrow canal paralleled the road to my left, and suddenly, a medium-sized, reddish-brown bird flew out from beneath the road to some reeds across the canal. Astonishingly, it was another lifer, one that I recognized immediately: a Least Bittern! One of the smallest members of the heron family, Least Bitterns apparently are not all that rare. Ranger Campbell told me that they are very common year-round at the refuge, but the thing is, they are incredibly shy. I will just tell you that I never really expected to see one, and yet here one was! Not only that, it struck a pleasing pose while I kept my camera shutter clicking.
Seeing my lifer Least Bittern not only justified the entire trip, it captured Bird of the Trip honors!
I had barely started again when I noticed a couple of terns flying around. Generally while I am birding, I ignore terns and gulls until I’ve identified everything else. As one of the terns zoomed by my car, however, I noticed that it had an oddly blunt thick black bill. “No way,” I said, rushing to take some ID photos. My hunch was correct. These were Gull-billed Terns—lifer Gull-billed Terns!
Terns favor the prepared mind. If I hadn’t been birding for more than a decade, the black bill on this guy may never have caught my attention.
Really, I could hardly believe it. I arrived at Anahuac expecting to see birds that I had seen many times before. Now, within the space of ten minutes, I added three new species to my life list! It seemed so preposterous that I laughed out loud. What’s more, this was still only my first day of birding on my Texas trip. One thing was for sure: I never would have had such success if it weren’t for the hard-working government employees we all depend on. It just shows the wisdom of investing in protecting our natural resources for the common good.
I’m excited to be heading off to Texas in a few days, to promote my book Birding for Boomers, but also to squeeze in a few days of birding. Before I go, I want to share an exciting new book that will interest anyone who has ever dreamed about visiting Africa. Braden loved a previous book, Habitats of the World, by two of the co-authors, and this follow-up is also full of fascinating facts and insights. Oh, and in case you missed it, you’ll want to read last week’s outstanding guest post by Roger Kohn, “Cock-of-the-Rock Extravaganza—with Video!”Enjoy!
When I first opened my review copy of Habitats of Africa, I thought, “How on earth did the authors put together such a comprehensive guide to such a vast and ecologically diverse continent?” I next wondered how, as a reader, I might possibly absorb the immense amount of information packed into this handsome volume. The answer to the first question is that all three authors have worked as professional nature guides, with extensive experience in Africa. As for the second? I could only answer that by diving in.
Habitats of Africa: A Field Guide for Birders, Naturalists, and Ecologistsby Ken Behrens, Keith, Barnes, and Iain Campbell (Princeton University Press)
The table of contents reveals that Habitats of Africa covers an astonishing seventy-plus different habitats, and honestly, that alone could be overwhelming to the beginning reader. The TOC, though, also provides good clues for how the book is arranged and is therefore worth a few moments of time.
Habitats are organized under a dozen headings, ranging from “Deserts and Arid Lands” and “Warm Humid Broadleaf Forests” to “Savannas” and “Saline Habitats.” The first habitat I read was the Maghreb fir and cedar forest, one of four habitats listed under the “Conifers” heading. I probably started with this one because I don’t usually think about conifer forests growing in Africa. They do, of course, but their ranges are extremely limited, and I wanted to know more about them.
Even those who have never visited Africa easily recognize many of the continent’s distinctive habitats such as this acacia-clad savanna my wife Amy and I observed on our trip to Ethiopia in 2005. This is one of eight distinct kinds of savannas explained in Habitats of Africa.
The listing began with a nice map of where these forests can be found, and then followed with a concise but revealing description of the forest itself. Surprising phrases kept leaping out at me: “Atlas Cedar”, “clusters of oaks”, “winter snowpack”. I mean, where was I, anyway? This sounded more like California than Africa. One of the nice things about the book, however, is that it lists similar forest types found elsewhere in Africa and around the world—including the pinyon-juniper woodland of western North America.
Lamentably, Amy and I visited Africa before I became a birder, but I accidentally managed to take a few bird photos with my point-and-shoot camera, including this magnificent African Fish-Eagle.
After the description, the authors include accounts of a habitat’s conservation status, the particular wildlife that can be found there; and its distribution—including specific places to see it. I found the wildlife sections especially well-done because the authors focused on endemic and other high-interest species while not overloading the reader with information. As a birder, for instance, I discovered that the avifauna of the Maghreb fir and cedar forest shares similarities to what I have observed in the Levant and southern Europe (see posts “Winter Birding in Israel, Part II: Valley of the Cranes” and “Birding Barcelona, Part 1: The Urban Core”)—but that there are also different species such as the Levaillant’s Woodpecker and Atlas Flycatcher.
African Sacred Ibis and Marabou Stork attracted to a fish market at a lake south of Addis Ababa, Ethiopia.
There’s no getting around that the conservation status for most of the habitats is alarming. It’s hard to find a habitat in which humans haven’t made a major impact, especially given Africa’s rapidly-growing human population. In fact, the book includes eight habitats under its “Anthropogenic” heading—those with little of their original ecosystems intact. Although depressing on one hand, this conservation information provides a good picture of what is going on in the continent—trends that are distressingly similar to those experienced in many of the world’s other places, including North America. I also found it interesting to read why some habitats appear to be faring better than others. For instance, of southern Africa’s succulent karoo habitat—a habitat I’d never heard of—the authors write, “With limited agricultural potential and not much grass, the land in this biome is not highly sought after for human activity, but there has beeen significant sheep grazing and subsequent erosion.”
Ethiopia’s burgeoning population and pervasive poverty force livestock owners to illegally graze, even in places such as Bale National Park, one of the last strongholds of the Ethiopian Wolf.
The problem with reading about one habitat, however, is that it immediately made me curious to learn about others. The Maghreb fir and cedar forest discussion, for instance, mentioned that the forest peters out on the southern mountain slopes draining into the Sahara. “But what’s the Sahara really like?” I wondered, so I soon found myself reading up on one of the world’s most inhospitable places, the Saharan reg desert. This is a place that often receives less than one inch of rainfall each year—and where places can go years without seeing a drop. Yet, life persists here. Although much of the large megafauna has been hunted out, fascinating animals such as sand cats and fennec foxes survive, along with an incredible collection of small mammals and reptiles. This is a good place to mention that the book is filled with outstanding photos of the habitats and their various life forms, and in this chapter a photo of Cream-colored Courser caught my eye. Why? Because it looked almost identical to the Mountain Plovers we have in the arid West!
Amy and I were fortunate to see Ethiopian wolves in one of their last strongholds, a high-altitude habitat called afroparamo in Bale National Park.Already by our visit in 2005, grazing in the park (see previous photo) threatened the outlook for the wolves and the giant mole rats that serve as one of their major prey.
That said, one thing the book showed me is that, although similarities can be found between African and other world habitats, many of the ecosystems in Africa are unique—especially if you compare them to North America. And that can have a strange impact on a reader.
If you have any doubts about the uniqueness of many of Africa’s ecosystems, all you have to do is look at this lobelia tree in Ethiopia’s Bale National Park. The trees reminded me of Joshua trees in the American Southwest, and I can’t help thinking that the two trees might represent a striking case of convergent evolution.
I have only ever been to Africa once, during a school visit to Ethiopia in 2005. What’s more, I thought it unlikely I would ever have a chance to visit again. As I read through Habitats of Africa, however, I kept thinking, “Oh, I want to see that,” and “I want to go there.” It doesn’t mean I will get to, but reading this book may be the next best thing. More than all of the nature documentaries I’ve watched, this volume has given me a plausible idea of the incredible diversity of places and nature that can be seen there. As a birder in particular, it’s also given me a much better idea of the birds that I especially would like to see. It’s a stretch to call the book casual reading, but for anyone interested in nature, or planning their own trip to Africa, it is a well worth your time. If I ever get a chance to return to Africa, you can bet that I’ll be spending even more time with this impressive publication.
Note: Along with the extensive photographs and distribution maps, Habitats of Africa includes a wealth of climate charts, profile sketches, and topical sidebars that enhance the reader’s understanding of each habitat.
One-Sentence Summary: An eye-opening crash course on the nature of perhaps the world’s least understood continent.
Overall Rating (on a scale of cool birds): Rüppell’s Griffon (highest)
You can order Habitats of Africa from your local independent bookstore, or directly from Princeton University Press.Please tell them we sent you!
(Except for the cover image, photos in this post are copyright Sneed B. Collard III. Review copy of Habitats of Africa provided by the publisher.)
I stood on the wooden platform a hundred feet above the forest floor, staring down the long metal cable leading off into the foliage. The ziplining guide unhooked the carabiner on my belt from one line and attached it to another, then banged on the cable with a wooden bat—a signal to whoever was on the other end that I was ready to go. A colorful iguana watched from a nearby tree as I leaned back, grabbed the cable with my leather gloves, and jumped into the air. Humid, tropical wind hit me as I zipped past epiphyte-covered trees, and I heard the calls of parrots flying over. Thirty seconds later, I landed on the next platform, where the guide unclipped my carabiner and clipped it to another cable for another thrilling ride. An hour and fourteen platforms later, I touched down on the ground and joined the rest of the USAC students in gushing about how awesome ziplining had been—just the beginning to an exhilarating, chaotic weekend on the Pacific coast of Costa Rica.
I’m going to get the, ahem, hang of this eventually!
After lunch, our program directors took us to the coastal tourist town of Jaco. Some people split off to take a paid surfing lesson, but I opted to stay on the main beach and enjoy the waves. As my friends and I waded into the warm, salty water, we discovered that we were not alone. As we swam in the surf, something soft and slimy suddenly collided with my leg.
“Ack!” I cried, jumping backwards. Everyone around me stared. “What?”
A pair of fins appeared in the water to our left. Sharks! my mind shouted, but a sudden rolling wave gave us a glance at their true identities—stingrays! And the Pacific Cownose Rays (according to our limited research on Google) were not strong swimmers. Every time a more powerful wave rolled in, it carried the animals straight into us. Thankfully, none of the human—stingray collisions ended in harm to either party, but feeling a large, slimy animal run into me was not something I got used to.
The beach at Jaco—a favorite for tourists and stingrays!
We retired from the beach to the hostel where we would be staying for the night, a mere hundred meters from the ocean. As the sun set, however, our activities continued. At around 5, two of my friends and I went on a probably ill-advised walk through the town of Jaco in search of owls. We ended up on a long dirt road leading towards the jungle. Before we got there, brooding clouds materialized above us, and a downpour soaked our clothes. We didn’t see any owls (or at least not well), but we did spot a few other night birds, including Lesser Nighthawks and Common Pauraques. Upon our soggy return to Jaco, we stopped briefly on a bridge crossing a small stream in town. There, in the dark, moonlit water, stood a tall, powerful-looking heron, staring straight down into the current. We watched from the bridge as the Bare-throated Tiger-Heron crept closer and closer to its desired target. After five minutes of holding our breaths, the heron plunged its neck into water, pulling out a fish and swallowing it whole!
That night, our entire cohort of students went out for drinks in downtown Jaco (the legal drinking age in Costa Rica is 18). Some of us grew restless sitting in the bars, however, and made our way back to the beach to watch the ocean pound relentlessly into the dark sand. Near our hostel, a river mouth emptied into the ocean, running in all directions to create a maze of shallow streams and sandbars. And there, under the moon, we spotted more herons, fishing in the dark. Another tiger-heron strutted on the shore. Two Yellow-crowned Night-herons fought over a frog dinner. But the coolest animal we saw was a bird straight out of a horror movie—the uncommon and elusive Boat-billed Heron (I didn’t take a picture because it was so dark but you should definitely look this thing up). There on the sand it stood, with large, dark, soulless eyes complementing its wild, black hairdo. Its bill looked more like a shovel than a boat, and we watched as it rushed into the water, chasing after a fish.
Scarlet Macaws in flight.
The next morning, Kiley, Leah and I caught an Uber to Playa Hermosa (“Beautiful Beach”—one of several Playa Hermosas scattered around the country) south of Jaco. Silvery streaks of sand ran across the less-touristed coastline, but the biggest prize had little to do with the ocean. Planted along the edge of the sand stood large trees of many species, including palms and almonds. Feeding on those almonds were giant, long-tailed Scarlet Macaws! The macaws flew over us in groups of two to four, calling abrasively and flashing the streaks of blue and yellow that decorated their otherwise crimson bodies. At one point, one landed no more than ten feet away, and we watched and filmed it in awe. Scarlet Macaws are a threatened species because of the illegal pet trade and habitat loss, but their story in Costa Rica is one of success. After declining significantly in the 1900s, Scarlet Macaws are increasing in numbers on both the Pacific and Caribbean coasts of the country, thanks to conservation work. They are now once again a common sight in much of Costa Rica.
Scarlet Macaws feeding in trees along the beach. Their beaks are especially designed to crush the largest, hardest nuts!
The next morning, our last of the weekend, eight of us caught an early-morning bus north to Carara National Park, one of the last tracts of pristine Pacific lowland rainforest in the country. Once we bought our tickets and entered the park (if you go, make SURE to buy tickets online in advance—it was a hassle doing it there), we followed a trail deep into the forest, marveling at the height and circumference of the smooth-barked trees rising before us. Many of the trees had thick buttresses stretching out from their bases. Here, the deeper soils held little nutrients, so tree roots stretched out rather than down. Leaf-cutter ant trails crossed the trail every couple hundred meters, and we thanked a guide who pointed out a White-lined Bat roosting on the side of a tree.
One of several troops of leaf-cutter ants we enjoyed watching.
White-faced Capuchins preening during siesta time.A basilisk, or Jesus Christ, lizard.
Loafing on a log laid across a bubbling river we spotted not one but two Brown Basilisks or Jesus Christ Lizards, that special reptile with the ability to run on water. White-faced Capuchins stared down at us from trees as they picked through each other’s fur, and we startled a White-nosed Coati from the trail, where it had been quietly gobbling down ants. We got great views of Slaty-tailed Trogons—big, red-bellied birds that look kind of like frogs—and a Yellow-throated Toucan that flew in as we watched yet more Scarlet Macaws. My personal bird of the day was a Black-faced Antthrush, a small, quiet songbird poking through the leaf litter about fifty meters away from the trail. This lowland rainforest (which was the final of the three prominent forest types in the country for me to visit) held many species from the tropical dry forest, too, as Carara National Park sits near the zone where the two habitats blend together. To see true, pure lowland tropical rainforest, however, we’ll have to visit the Osa Peninsula or Manuel Antonio National Park, quite a bit farther south.
My favorite bird of the weekend, a Black-faced Antthrush.Slaty-tailed Trogon, one of nine trogon species in Costa Rica.
Braden and Nick are close to the finish line! This penultimate day of their epic Florida adventure would bring revelation, frustration, traffic jams, and finally, the realization of a key (no pun intended) target species of the trip. They also happened to be nearing their goal of 200 species for their expedition—as well as moving Braden significantly along in his quest to see 400 species during his 2022 Big Year. Read on to find out what happens . . .
Unfortunately, sleep was not in our immediate future after leaving the Keys that night. We pulled back into the Everglades, passing the campsite I’d enjoyed the night before, Chuck-will’s-widow calls sailing through our rolled-down windows. As we drove south in the dark towards Flamingo, the “town” at the bottom of the glades, we scanned the roads looking for our targets: snakes. Soon enough, Nick spotted one, and we pulled off the road, turning on our emergency lights so oncoming cars wouldn’t run us, or the snake, over as we walked down the road towards it. We left Dixie in the car, given that this snake was a Florida Cottonmouth, and probably could have killed Dixie if she got too close. The snake coiled on the warm road, its mouth open, and we showed another group of people that pulled over to see what we were photographing. Our spirits high, we headed back to the car—only to discover that Dixie had peed all over both seats. The smell infiltrated our noses, and we wiped up the mess with various towels and toilet paper that would be going in the next garbage can we came across.
Half an hour later, we rolled into the dark parking lot of a wooded trail near Flamingo. We set off in the dark, using a stick to brush spiderwebs out of the way and looking back frequently to make sure we wouldn’t get lost. Eventually, the trees gave way to a massive field of saltbush, slightly silver in the moonlight. This was the winter home of another incredibly elusive species, the Black Rail. This bird, a member of a group of birds already known to be difficult to find, was the size of a mouse and completely nocturnal. If Mangrove Cuckoo wasn’t the hardest regularly-occurring species to see in North America, it was definitely Black Rail. While hearing them was slightly easier, they didn’t seem to know that as we played for them in the dark, and we walked back to the car, our legs covered in scratches from the saltbushes, after forty fruitless minutes of searching. Nick fell asleep immediately as I took the wheel, just trying to get a little further north before crashing so the driving would not be as terrible during the next few days. I didn’t get far, however, and pulled into another parking lot. Between the smell of urine and the oppressive humidity, I didn’t get very much sleep that night.
Birds such as this juvenile Black-crowned Night Heron helped compensate for a terrible night’s sleep and Dixie’s, ahem, perfuming of the car seats!
At seven, Nick drove us to our next spot, a place called the L31W Canal, a little northeast of the Everglades. Struggling against my fatigue, I stepped out of the car in the brightening sky, and we began trudging along a straight road bordered by brambles on one side and grassy pine forest on the other. We had several goals here, the primary one being a Smooth-billed Ani that had been hanging out for a while. After doing some digging on eBird, I discovered that the ani was a ways down the dusty road, and I sighed, preparing for a long, hot, uneventful hike. Fortunately, I was quickly proven wrong.
We passed another pair of birders, one of them guiding the other. Nick pointed out the calls of Northern Bobwhites, quail I hadn’t seen since South Texas and had never before heard, and all of a sudden, an orange blur caught my eye. I looked to the right, where a beautiful Barn Owl had just alighted on top of a tall, branchless snag.
This was the best photo I could manage of my first really good look at a Barn Owl.
“Holy cow, look!” I said, pointing as all four of us birders turned towards it and raised our various devices (camera, binoculars, and in the guide’s case, a scope). The bird had dark eyes and a grayish, circular face peering at us in the morning fog. It took off before I was able to secure any good pictures, its flight reminiscent of a bounding rabbit. We watched the Barn Owl, a species I had only seen the butt of before, our eyes transfixed on the vibrant orange of its wings as it floated around for a while and then disappeared. It was almost like the birds had seen my poor mood and responded accordingly, putting the smile back on my face—and they were just getting started. In fact, the best birding of the entire trip unfolded before us.
As we scanned the pine savannah to our right, searching for White-tailed Kites, Nick pointed out Eastern Meadowlarks, a bird I somehow hadn’t seen until now. Pishing in agricultural parts of the walk yielded a variety of sparrows, including Savannah and, surprisingly, a Grasshopper Sparrow, a bird I associated with the shortgrass prairie of Eastern Montana rather than the humid scrubland of south Florida. More Swallow-tailed Kites appeared above us, circling above the pineywoods as if cheering us on. At one point, a bright red bird zoomed across my path, briefly perching up in a low bush—a male Painted Bunting! The bird was even more stunning than I’d expected, with its deep blue head, green back and brilliant crimson belly lit up in the sun.
The L31W Canal continued to deliver great birds with my first ever Eastern Meadowlark and a spectacular male Painted Bunting.
While we didn’t find the ani, the other birders pointed out other rare species to us. This place seemed to be a rarity hotspot, which became apparent with a kingbird flock we found. Western Kingbirds were regular winter residents in this area, but this flock also included both a Cassin’s Kingbird (a Western species) and a Tropical Kingbird (a tropical species), and I learned the difference between the three as we watched them fly around us. As much as Nick and I wanted to stay longer, we had miles to cover and Mangrove Cuckoos to find, so we said goodbye to the other birders and began the drive through the glades towards the Gulf Coast.
This was my first time getting to directly observe the differences between Tropical (shown above), Cassin’s, and Western Kingbirds in the field.
Yet again, we drove through prime Snail Kite habitat, and yet again, we found no Snail Kites. The sawgrass marshes gave way to densely forested glades as we drove along the Tamiami Trail, and we pulled into the visitor center for Big Cypress National Preserve for a quick glance around the center grounds. While we did see a fair number of birds along the drive and at the visitor center, the main attractions were the aquatic creatures. Amazingly, we spotted a pair of porpoises in the canal as well as a Brown Pelican, both an unusually far distance inland. That meant that somehow, this canal must have had some saltwater. What’s more, at the visitor center we found large schools of fish, including mean-looking Florida Gar. In front of our eyes, a Softshell Turtle snagged one of them and was promptly ambushed by several more. However, the most mind-blowing animals were the alligators. Dozens sulked in the canal, and at the visitor center alone I counted thirty or so, all within several feet of the humans peering at them from the safety of the boardwalk.
Eventually, the scenery changed as we left Snail Kite habitat and entered the habitat of the snowbirds, people who migrated south from the northern United States to their homes in the warmth of Florida. More specifically, we were in Cape Coral, a hot, concrete-covered town known for its tourists as well as another species that I’d only seen previously in the prairies of Montana: the Burrowing Owl. A threatened, urban owl population existed in this part of Florida, surviving in parks, yards and abandoned lots here only because of the protection the city provided. As we pulled up to the Cape Coral Public Library, we saw the fencing and stakes marking their burrows, although no birds were to be found. The heat of the day seemed to be keeping them down, so we headed west, towards our last chance at Mangrove Cuckoo: Ding Darling National Wildlife Refuge on Sanibel Island.
Fish Crows entertained us in many of South Florida’s habitats, including mangroves.
Again, this refuge caught me off guard. I’d expected large marshes and ponds, similar to Montana’s refuges. Instead, we were met with thick, tall, healthy mangroves. The trees were larger and denser than what we’d seen in the Keys, and more accessible too. We drove the main refuge loop, stopping at various trails to play for the cuckoo. One boardwalk in particular displayed the complexity of the Red Mangrove ecosystem, giving us great looks at the trees’ prop roots as they plunged into the shallow, salt-covered mud, and the crabs scampering up their trunks. Fish leapt from the water of the mangrove-encased bays, and we spotted a few shorebirds and waders wherever land showed itself. Here, again, the primary songs we heard were those of Prairie Warblers, singing from all around us in this perfect breeding habitat. And yet again, more Swallow-tailed Kites flew over us, reminding us of the excitement we’d felt when we’d first seen them at Merritt Island.
As we left Ding Darling, cuckoo-less, we discovered what else the area was known for: traffic—the worst traffic I’d ever been in, hood-to-bumper cars stretching for miles as people tried to get off the island. We probably could have gotten off Sanibel faster if we’d been as we covered three or so miles in roughly an hour. Eventually, though, we made our escape, and headed to a nearby baseball field in a last ditch attempt for Burrowing Owls. Again, though, after half an hour of walking around, they evaded us, frustration rising inside us. While the day had been great, we’d missed every single target—no ani, no cuckoo, no kites and no Burrowing Owls, not to mention the uncomfortable night spent looking for nonexistent Black Rails. As the sun began to set, a baseball game started next to us. I stared as the young Little League players hit line drives over each others’ heads. A single ball flew into the outfield, and then I saw it: yellow fencing, located just beyond the baseball diamond. I raised my binoculars, revealing two brown lumps perched on the chain link fence within the yellow caution tape.
“I’ve got em!” I said, and Nick and I began running, Dixie leading the way. As we got close, we put Dixie on a leash, lying down to photograph what we’d found: two incredibly cooperative Burrowing Owls perched in front of us, one on the lawn and one on the fence above the first. They stared at us, their mottled brown-and-white pattern complementing their intense, unmoving eyes. Nick and I moved a little further to take a selfie. Finally, we’d found something we were looking for!
Finally, after an afternoon-long search complete with horrendous South Florida traffic, we were rewarded with a great look at Burrowing Owls in Cape Coral.
We ended our day at a campsite just south of Gainesville at roughly eleven o’clock, a surprisingly earlier bedtime compared to the rest of the trip. While my goal was sleep, Nick went off in search of Eastern Whip-poor-wills. I lay there, in the back of Nick’s truck, thinking about where we’d been. After spending the day in the glades and the mangroves, we were back in the Pineywoods, hoping for another chance at their birds tomorrow before heading back to New Orleans. While we’d gotten several of my target birds for the trip so far, we’d missed an unfortunate number, and I’d hoped that tomorrow would go better. Would it? Or would we miss everything yet again, to return to Louisiana only with a few of the birds we’d set out to find? Stay tuned to find out!
Welcome to Blog 4 of Braden’s series about his and Nick Ramsey’s remarkable birding excursion through Florida. Nowhere in the U.S. do things get more biologically bizarre than in South Florida, and especially in the Keys. Enjoy and, as always, please feel free to share this post.
A Great Horned Owl, the second owl species of our trip so far, greeted us as a silhouette on a power pole as we raced south from the Everglades at dawn. After waking to the sound of more Chuck-wills-widows, we’d packed up the car, and now were on our way towards the southernmost point in Florida. We crossed a small bridge overlooking the slowly-brightening shallow waters of south Florida, and suddenly, we were there: the Florida Keys.
If you need convincing about how invasive species are impacting the planet, go no further than Florida!
Our first stop, like many of our stops today, had one major target: Mangrove Cuckoo. This species, one of North America’s most elusive, had consistent records only from the very southernmost part of the state, barring a few reliable spots farther up the Gulf side. The habitat looked right—the part of Key Largo we’d just entered was absolutely coated in Red and Black Mangroves, and as we pulled into a dirt parking lot, we were greeted with the songs of White-eyed Vireos, a species I had not expected to breed in the mangroves. This area, especially later in the season, could be stellar for vireos, with Red-eyed, White-eyed, Blue-headed, Yellow-throated, Black-whiskered, Thick-billed, Yellow-green and even Mangrove all possible. Unfortunately, we were still a bit early for many of these birds, and we saw and heard only White-eyed throughout the day.
The first stop was not particularly productive, and we realized that we were in the wrong habitat for the cuckoo. Despite having driven through mangroves to get here, the road wound its way through almost-subtropical deciduous forest rather than the water-submerged trees we needed to find a cuckoo. Dagny Johnson Key Largo Hammock Botanical State Park(say that three times), just down the road, proved considerably better, and as we got out of the car Nick got on a warbler almost immediately.
“Black-throated Blue!”
I was thrilled to add this Black-throated Blue warbler to my Life List—one of the last wood warblers I had yet to see.
“Really?” I said, jogging up to where he was standing. Sure enough, a darker, blue and black warbler hopped into view a few feet above us in a tree, and began responding as we played Blue-headed Vireo calls. It was one of my last Eastern wood-warbler needs, and one of the best of them at that. Soon, several parulas and vireos came to the playback as well, and we found ourselves in a miniature mixed winter flock, something we had been hoping to encounter. Continuing down the path, another lifer appeared.
Two dark pigeons flew over, landing in a snag barely lit by the morning sun, and I raised my binoculars, confirming what I’d suspected. While I could make out few other features aside from the dark gray color, the one feature I saw nailed the identification.
“White-crowned Pigeons!”
White-crowned Pigeons, another Lifer for me, was but one of six members of the pigeon/dove family to greet us in South Florida.
This species, a Caribbean mangrove specialist like the cuckoo, also had a very restricted U.S. range, but where it did occur—specifically here—they were supposedly quite abundant, something we confirmed as we drove farther south. They weren’t the only member of Columbidae present, though. We tallied an astounding six species including Eurasian Collared, Mourning, Common Ground and White-winged Doves plus Rock and White-crowned Pigeons. Who knew that the Keys would be so good for this seemingly random family!
Every key differed, if only slightly, from the last. Resorts and restaurants covered the larger Keys, like Key Largo, and I was surprised to see how much land existed on them. I’d assumed many of these islands would be completely mangrove, but I had assumed wrong, as everywhere we looked we saw dirt, whether put there by humans or not. The smaller keys were the really neat ones though—sometimes only a couple of hundreds of meters wide, the Overseas Highway divided what little land each had. We stopped on many of these small keys to play for Mangrove Cuckoos, with no success, but we did make other cool discoveries. Shorebirds coated the beaches and lagoons, and Magnificent Frigatebirds circled above as commonly as Red-tailed Hawks in Montana. The two most abundant passerines were Prairie Warblers and White-eyed Vireos, both of which appeared to have distinct breeding populations found in the mangroves. The water itself was a stunning blue-green, and I could see why hotels and resorts were so popular here.
After adding Prairie Warbler to my Life List early in the trip, I was astonished to find that they and White-eyed Vireos practically dripped from every bush in the Keys.
While we drove, I kept an eye on the sky. While we’d gotten our trip Swallow-tailed Kite a few days before (and also happened to get one in the Keys), we were still missing another Florida specialty: Short-tailed Hawk. This raptor had a very small population in the United States, and could be told from other Buteos by its often-dark wings, barred tail and small size. On our drive down, however, we didn’t spot any, growing a bit concerned that we might miss them for the trip.
After driving over water for a while, we soon arrived at Big Pine Key, one of the largest islands, not to mention being one of the farthest south. This island was unique, hosting a rare habitat known as Caribbean Pine Rockland, and this new habitat brought a new endemic subspecies: Key Deer. This deer, a miniature version of a White-tailed Deer, only lived on this cluster of islands, and did not occur on Key West, farther south, or on any of the keys farther north. Several other strange species lived here, including Indian Peacock, which had been introduced and established itself on this island. Indian Peacock, despite being found all over the United States as escapees, was only actually countable in this one place in the entire country!
We spent the day so far in mangroves, but at the Blue Hole nature walk we felt transported back to the Pineywoods section of the state. This habitat, like the Pineywoods, was actually fire-dependent, although I had a hard time imagining how, given the tiny geographic area it occupied in the middle of the ocean. We soon arrived at a small wooden platform overlooking a large, mostly clear pond: the Blue Hole. A slightly obnoxious woman welcomed us, pointing out an alligator lying right below the platform, its entire, scaled body visible in the water below us. Further out in the pond, a large silver fish floated aimlessly.
“Tarpon,” said the woman, “Usually a fish only found in saltwater. These guys got deposited by the last hurricane. You see that?” She pointed at a mark on the platform at about the height of my knees. “That’s how high the water was, all over this damn island.”
Nick and I continued, finding ourselves on a large dirt road. “If we walk down this, we should see some deer,” said Nick, who’d been here before. Sure enough, after a few dozen meters, we came across a few feeding in the yard of a vacation home. While they weren’t mind-bogglingly small, they were smaller than any of the White-taileds I’d seen in Montana or Maine, or even northern Florida for that matter. We kept Dixie on a leash as she stared intently at the Key Deer, which were fairly unimpressed by our presence. Before leaving, we also managed to hear an Indian Peacock from somewhere in the pines—another lifer for me.
Wait for it . . . finally, a photo of Nick and Dixie! Oh yeah, and a Florida Key Deer on Big Pine Key.
After finding an early Gray Kingbird (see my post “When Montana Birders Collide“), we continued down to Key West, pulling into the parking lot for the Key West Botanical Gardens. It was only forty minutes before closing time and we cursed ourselves, having hoped to get more time at what was surely one of the best spots to bird in the keys. We split up, heading off into the forest of foreign plants to try to tally as many species as possible. After twenty minutes with almost nothing besides a cooperative Black-and-white Warbler, Nick called me. “I’ve got a mixed flock! Get over here!”
It was odd to see a Gray Kingbird in its natural habitat after seeing a vagrant GRKI in Maine just a couple of months ago.
I was on the other side of the gardens, and took back off the way I’d come, eventually finding him on the other side of a manmade lake. He played his mixed flock playback, and the birds poured in: Prairie, Yellow-throated and Palm Warblers, accompanied by a squadron of catbirds. Two splotchy Summer Tanagers joined the fray, and Nick pointed out a Ruby-throated Hummingbird as it zipped by. I was disappointed in my inability to find anything like this on my own, but was happy that we’d finally found one of the mixed flocks the Keys were known for.
Our last major stop of the day was Fort Zachary Taylor Historic State Park, a manicured tourist destination that had been hosting a Black-faced Grassquit for several months now. Birders were unsure as to whether this grassquit was wild or not, given that they were a popular cage bird, but a wild population did exist on the Bahamas, not all that far from here. Regardless, it was one of the less exciting rarity chases we’d ever done. We pulled up to the spot it had been reported in, following coordinates others had posted, and located the bird deep in a bush, its ashy head poking out every once in a while, and that’s where it stayed. After getting another birder on it, we continued walking around the park, scanning trees for more warbler flocks and brush piles for rarities. A Merlin flew over, spooking the established Red Junglefowl as they strutted around the lawns, but we found nothing spectacular, and were soon back on the road north. The Keys had been some of what we’d hoped them to be. I’d gotten several lifers, and we’d found a rare—
No, this is not the Short-tailed Hawk we saw, but the Magnificent Frigatebirds that frequently flew over us should convince anyone that the Chicxulub meteor did not wipe out all the dinosaurs at the end of the Cretaceous!
“Wait!” I yelled as we headed north from Key West. “Hawk!”
Nick and I peered through the windshield. Above us, at the very top of a flock of vultures, soared a small, dark-winged buteo with a striped tail and pointed wings.
“Is it Short-tailed?” I asked, trying to think what else it could be.
“There aren’t Red-taileds here,” said Nick, “And dark morph Broad-winged are incredibly rare in the east, if not unreported. That’s a Short-tailed!” “Woohoo!” I yelled, rolling down the window to get better looks as our car zoomed a hundred meters underneath my last, and best lifer of the day. Okay, so maybe the Keys hadn’t been that bad! We’d missed Mangrove Cuckoo, of course, but Nick and I had a plan for that. A place by the name of Ding Darling National Wildlife Refuge . . .
