Category Archives: Seabirds

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!

Magnificent Cape May

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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.**

Birding Japan: Kamakura by the Sea

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Since we published them, our birding posts about Japan have been read in more than a dozen countries. If you are planning your own trip to Japan, you’re in luck! Sneed’s new book, FIRST-TIME JAPAN: A STEP-BY-STEP GUIDE FOR THE INDEPENDENT TRAVELER, tells you everything you need to know about how to plan your trip to this remarkable, yet sometimes intimidating, country. Order now by clicking here.

Welcome to the second installment of my birding reports from Japan. To read the first report, click here, and of course feel free to share these reports with others—and add your own experiences in the comments section. Thanks for reading!

As mentioned in my last post, one of my goals in birding Japan was to reach 1,000 bird species for my life list. I arrived in the country needing 31 species to hit that mark, but picked up only 13 new lifers during my daughter’s and my first three days in Tokyo. A day trip by bullet train, or shinkansen, to the northern town of Sendai added Japanese Pygmy Woodpecker and Varied Tit to my total, but I felt like the next stop on our itinerary, the seaside town of Kamakura, would have to perform better if I were to keep on pace.

Kamakura lies only about an hour by train from Tokyo and has earned a reputation as a weekend getaway and favorite place for surfing and other water sports. Anticipating that we might need a break after five days in the Big City, I had rented us a tiny apartment only two blocks from the beach, and as soon as we stepped off the train, the area enchanted us. The main train station sits adjacent to a vibrant street full of food and crafts shops, but to reach our lodging we had to hop on the cutest little train you can imagine, ride a few stops, and then roll our luggage a half a kilometer through a quirky little beach town that easily could have been on the Oregon Coast or in Southern California. While trying to find our accommodations, we crossed a little bridge over a canal when a scintillating blue flash caught my eye, followed by another. I didn’t get a great look, but knew immediately what they were—Common Kingfishers, one of my favorite birds and, as it turned out, the only time I got to see them on the trip.

The Island of Sodor? No, but the delightful Enoshima Electric Railway made us wonder!

We arrived at our apartment too early to check in so decided to sit in a children’s playground for a few minutes to rest and recover from our hectic travel morning. I felt eager to get out and find some birds, but there in the playground I didn’t have to. Instead, the birds came to me. First, a dove landed on a phone wire only a few yards away. My adrenaline surging, I whipped out my binoculars and sure enough, it was a lifer I had been hoping for: Oriental Turtle-Dove! Then, I espied a bluish bird flitting around on a nearby rooftop. Swallow or flycatcher? I thought to myself. Instead, I was surprised to identify another lifer I had desperately been wanting to see—a Blue Rock-Thrush. Right there in the playground, we were also joined by a Warbling White-eye and either Japanese or Varied Tits, though I didn’t get a great look at the latter.

**My lifer Oriental Turtle-Dove landed next to our lodging in Kamakura, and we were fortunate to also see them on Enoshima Island and other locations on our trip.**

Leaving our bags, Tessa and I walked down to the beach. Perhaps a hundred surfers crowded the two- to three-foot waves, and Tessa and I saw Carrion Crows and Black Kites for the first time on the trip, both species Braden and I had seen in Israel right before the pandemic.

I’m not sure what this Carrion Crow has in mind, but Tessa and I had great fun watching it and its colleagues on Kamakura’s beach.

Since the forecast called for a rainy weekend, we tore ourselves away from the beach and hiked a mile or so to Kamakura’s most famous attraction, the Great Buddha. This forty-foot-high bronze sculpture was completed around the year 1253, and truly impressed both of us. When we arrived, a rock pigeon perched comfortably atop the Buddha’s head, a fitting signal that the Buddha welcomed both of us! After taking the mandatory photos, we sat on a stone wall and chilled in the statue’s peaceful presence before grabbing an early dinner at a café and then checking into our residence.

**The Great Buddha, or Daibutsu, of Kamakura is apparently the second largest Buddha in Japan and harkens back to about 1252.**

We had plans to take a genuine forest hike in Kamakura, but unfortunately the weather forecast turned out to be all too true. Saturday, umbrellas in hand, we braved the Kamakura food street next to the station, but were forced back home by chilling wetness—though not without nabbing a box of fresh mini-donuts! Sunday, we took the cute little train down the coast to Enoshima, famous for its picturesque island just offshore. A short causeway connected the island to the mainland, and on the way across I spotted the trip’s first Eurasian Wigeons, a species Braden and I are lucky to see once a year in Montana. I was also surprised to find Herring Gulls sitting atop light posts.

A Herring Gull? In Japan? Apparently, the birds know a lot more about their distributions than I do.

Following a beautiful paved winding path up the island’s mountainous terrain, we encountered birds that were now becoming familiar to both of us including Brown-eared Bulbuls, White Wagtails, White-cheeked Starlings, Eurasian Tree Sparrows, and a trio of Oriental Turtle-Doves. The highlight of the day, however, turned out to be a small, gorgeous red shrine tucked away in the trees near the summit. It apparently is one of three shrines on the island collectively known as Enoshima Shrine, and it was built to worship the deities of fishing and sea transport. We weren’t sure what to do there, so I quickly texted Ryosuke, a Japanese foreign-exchange student who happens to be spending the year at Tessa’s high school and who had been tutoring me in Japanese. He quickly texted back instructions, and we paid our respects before heading back down the mountain. Thank you Ryosuke!

Don’t look into his eyes. Just move on slowly. Nothing to see here.

Lifer count for the weekend? A mere two species, making our next destination, Kyoto, essential for my evil plans to reach my life list millennium mark.

My Enoshima eBird Checklist.

Braden’s 2022 Recap: Scrambling to 500

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Well, another great year of birding has passed for Braden and me—and we hope for you, too. Both of us had remarkable experiences the likes of which we’d never had before, and in the process once again broke our previous Big Year records—I, accidentally, and Braden with determination and grit. As you enjoy Braden’s year-end recap, we want to tell you how much we appreciate your interest in our adventures over the years. In 2022 we smashed viewership for our blog with more than 7,000 views for the first time, bringing our total to more than 21,000 views since we first began writing this blog (gasp) five years ago. We have never had any goals with the blog except to share our love of birding, provide some education about birds, and encourage a will to protect them. With that in mind, we don’t know how long we’ll continue writing it, but as long as you all keep checking in, chances are good that we’ll stay with it, too. Happy 2023 and may birds continue to grace your lives!

Roaring winds, carrying hordes of gulls and Northern Gannets with them, ripped past Schoodic Point as I stood on the wave-battered rocks. The sky was beginning to brighten, and a few other people had made an appearance, including a guy in the parking lot with a spotting scope who I’m pretty sure was counting migrating sea ducks. I had no particular need to talk to him. Instead I was content to stare at the sea, reflecting on one of the most memorable weekends I’d had in a long time.

**One of the fun things about returning to Maine for fall semester was hitting the Cornfield Loop and seeing tons of fall warblers, including this Palm Warbler.** **(See also warbler photos below.)**

I was several hours away from the end of my EES 217 class, a one-credit course completely confined to the past two and a half days. During this time, I and a group of like-minded students had designed projects relating to the ecology of the Schoodic Peninsula, a part of Acadia National Park. My group was chosen to study the impact that humans were having on Acadia’s saltmarshes, and we tackled this issue by wading out into the marshes around the peninsula and collecting data on trash, invasive species (specifically a tall grass called Phragmites) and erosion. Yesterday we had arrived back at the Schoodic Institute, our home for the weekend, to begin analyzing our data, and later today we would be presenting our project to the public, all under the guidance of the head of the University of Maine Ecology and Environmental Sciences Department, Katharine Ruskin.

**The first Rusty Blackbird I’d seen in six years, also on the Cornfield Loop, was a key ingredient to hitting my Big Year goal.**

The fact that I’d been doing science all weekend wasn’t the only great thing about this class. The food was great— welcome relief from dining hall food—and the people were amazing. It was the first time I had been surrounded by like-minded people in a long time, people who cared deeply about conservation and the environment. No one knew each other whatsoever on the Friday that we left, but by Sunday night I felt like I had made some really great friends. I talked to everyone I possibly could during the brief breaks we had to be social, including on Saturday night, when we all grouped together to do icebreakers for a few hours, and Sunday morning, when we all walked out to see the sunrise at Schoodic Point. It truly was an incredible experience.

**I was especially proud to pick out this juvenile Iceland Gull from a flock of Herring Gulls at the UMaine campus this fall.**

Now, as I stood on the rocky cliffs above the Atlantic (half an hour after everyone else had gone back to eat breakfast), I spotted a tiny gull fly by—one with a yellow bill and tiny black wingtips.

“Kittiwake!” I yelled, to no one in particular.

Black-legged Kittiwake was not a bird I had been expecting to see on this trip, or this year for that matter, and had the distinction of being my 498th bird species for the year.

After my dad’s and my amazing shorebirding and ptarmigan experience in August, I had arrived back on the University of Maine’s campus with low expectations—500 birds for the year was within reach, but unlikely since I had only 484 species and didn’t know where 16 more could possibly come from. I took advantage of my campus’s great location during the month of September, however, circling the campus’s Cornfield Loop as often as possible to look for warblers as they migrated south from their breeding grounds in the boreal forest. During that month, I added six species of warblers to my year list: Blackburnian, Bay-breasted, Canada, Cape May, Blackpoll and Tennessee. I also saw the first Rusty Blackbirds and Scarlet Tanagers that I’d seen in six years. Suddenly, my year list passed 490. A trip to St. John, New Brunswick with my girlfriend added White-rumped Sandpiper to my ABA list, and in late October, my friend Wesley Hutchens volunteered to drive me to Lake Sebasticook to see two long-staying Hudsonian Godwits, which I got to watch through fellow Montana birder Ed Harper’s spotting scope. And then, on November 6th, I saw those Black-legged Kittiwakes, cruising by Schoodic Point, and was suddenly two birds away from 500 with two months left.

**During a long weekend in New Brunswick, Canada, I encountered the largest flock of White-rumped Sandpipers I’d ever seen.**

I was not to be deceived by that seemingly long amount of time remaining, however. There just weren’t that many possibilities left, and the birds were leaving. American Golden-Plovers were making brief appearances around the state, but my chances of finding one were slim. Rare wintering birds like Glaucous Gulls and King Eiders also were things I needed on my year list, but again, there was no easy way to find them. Besides, my class load had picked up significantly, and the time I had allotted for birding diminished with every day.

**Thanks to Ed Harper and his spotting scope, I picked up my Lifer Hudsonian Godwits in late October at Sebasticook Lake, about an hour away from Orono.**

And yet, in mid-November, a local birder reported a Snow Goose from a farmer’s field in Bangor, Maine. The next day, people went to see it, and apparently the identification had changed to Ross’s Goose. Wesley Hutchens went that morning, and reported back to me as I was getting out of my Honors Lecture: it wasn’t a Snow Goose or a Ross’s Goose. It was both. And I needed both for the year, which was ironic given that had I been in Montana, I likely would have picked them up months earlier. I couldn’t resist, but I also couldn’t get there. I didn’t have a car.

Wes solved that problem. “Dude, you’re going to get these geese. I might be late to class, but we gotta get you these geese.”

Needless to say, Wesley Hutchens had been responsible for a large chunk of the birds I’d seen this fall, and I’m very grateful to him for that. We drove the fifteen minutes from campus, pulling over near an abandoned church across the road from a large field, and there they were. Two differently-sized white geese, standing right next to each other. It was almost too easy. And yet, maybe it was a reward for all of the time I’d put into getting the other 498 birds I’d seen in 2022. I’d seen a lot of birds in 2022.

**Who would have thought my 499th (Ross’s Goose) and 500th (Snow Goose) birds of the year would be standing right next to each other—and only a few miles down the road?**

Before leaving Montana in January, my dad and I had racked up nearly 70 species just birding around Montana, including uncommon winter species like Great Gray and Short-eared owls, Lapland Longspur, Pine Grosbeak and Canada Jay. February had been a rough month for birding, but March brought the trip from New Orleans to Key West with Nick Ramsey, giving me lifers in the form of Prairie Warblers singing from mangroves and Swallow-tailed Kites circling over the Pineywoods. That trip got me over 200 for the year. April was when a few migrants showed back up in Maine, followed by a stellar few days of May birding in New York City with my dad. I arrived back home to Missoula later that month, just in time for the migrants to hit Western Montana, which allowed me to see 100 species in a day just birding around my hometown.

Then, it was off to Southeastern Arizona, a region that was already wilting under ninety-degree temperatures during the middle of the day. Thoughts of Spotted Owls and Scott’s Orioles accompanied us as we crossed the border into southern California, then up the coast, across the Central Valley into the Sierras, where the town of Twain Harte became my home base for three months. It was there that I’d met Sam Darmstadt, Miles Carlile and Ivara Goulden, amazing people with whom I shared amazing experiences throughout the summer. We camped in the hottest desert in the world, we climbed one of California’s tallest peaks, we set off into the formidable Pacific Ocean in search of lifers. If you want to know what wildlife we saw during these adventures, well, there are posts about each and every one of them!

**Despite all of the great adventures I’ve had this year, I never tire of being home and enjoying Montana’s birds, including the Bohemian Waxwings flying around our neighborhood.**

And now, flash-forward to now, December 26th, 2022. I’m back home in Missoula for a few more weeks, then I head back to Maine to kick-off another year. My goals? I don’t have any numbers in mind, but I would like to see a Northern Pygmy-Owl while I’m still out west. Learning the Eastern wood-warblers by song would also be awesome, should I get a summer job in New England somewhere.

But what about the birds of 2022? What were my dad and I’s top ten, or top twenty? You’ll just have to stay tuned!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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