With fewer birds around, winter is an excellent chance to catch up on bird-related reading, both for enjoyment and education. I find this a perfect time to check out both new bird-related titles, and older books that I have somehow overlooked. Speaking of the latter, during the December holiday my father-in-law handed me Scott Weidensaul’s remarkable 2021 release, A World on the Wing: The Global Odyssey of Migratory Birds (W. W. Norton). I’m so glad that he did!
An easy reading style, engaging storytelling, and fascinating information render A WORLD ON THE WING one of a handful of required reading books for birders.(Click on the image for ordering information.)
In A World on the Wing, Weidensaul manages to take an overwhelming body of global information about bird migration and distill it into a series of stories that give the reader a captivating picture of what’s going on out there. The book’s first chapter hooked me immediately with the author’s visit to one of the world’s most vital shorebird stopover sites—and one I knew almost nothing about—the mudflats surrounding the Yellow Sea. These mudflats are nothing less than the linchpin to the East Asian-Australasian Flyway (EAAF), a vast, complicated series of routes used by millions of birds migrating from the Southern Hemisphere to breeding grounds in the far north. According to an online UNESCO article, about ten percent of all migrating birds on the EAAF depend on the Yellow Sea stopover area. They include two of the planet’s rarest shorebirds, the “Spoonie”, or Spoon-billed Sandpiper, with a population estimate of about 500 or fewer, and Nordman’s Greenshank with fewer than 2,000 individuals. Beyond that, the area provides critical support to 400 other bird species, including 45 considered threatened.
My 2023 visit to Japan highlighted how extensively crucial habitats for migrating birds have been gobbled up and polluted by development across the globe.These two Little Ringed Plovers were the only shorebirds I saw on this beach visit to Kanazawa, Japan. I suspect severe habitat degratdation had at least something to do with it.
This first chapter sets the tone for a global, diverse journey through myriad aspects of bird migration. One chapter focuses on the incredible physiological adaptations of migrating birds, including their abilities to sleep on the wing, reduce or increase the size of internal organs to optimize weight and function, and navigate by taking advantage of quantum physics. Other chapters focus on species or groups of migrating birds across the globe. Some of these birds, such as the Kirtland’s Warbler and Snowy Owl, will be familiar to many readers while others, such as Bar-tailed Godwits and Amur Falcons, are less so. Every chapter, though, is filled not only with revelations, but personal anecdotes and experiences that make the stories come alive.
While many key stopover sites have been protected in North America, our own migrating bird numbers continue to plummet. Shorebird species have been especially hard-hit. (Shown here: Dunlins at Fort Stevens State Park, Oregon.)
Taken as a whole, the book serves as an impassioned plea to protect migratory birds and, well, just do things better on this planet. The crucial mudflats of the Yellow Sea, for instance, are critically imperiled by industrial development, pollution, and interruption of sediment flow caused by thousands of dams across China’s rivers. It’s not that the loss of these mudflats would put a dent in bird populations. It could wipe them out. The author quotes one scientist as saying, “There is no more buffer. There is no more ‘somewhere else’ for these migrants.” The threats to migrating birds are multiple and widespread, varying only in their particulars. In some places, pesticides take terrible tolls. In other places, it’s illegal hunting for local culinary specialties. Almost everywhere, habitat loss and climate change loom large.
In Cyprus, Italy, France, and other countries, millions of migrating songbirds are needlessly and illegally slaughtered to satisfy traditional and/or eccentric culinary tastes. According to an Audubon article, at least 157 species are caught, including 90 species of conservation concern. (Shown here: European Robin.)
Somehow, the author manages to balance these threats with the overarching wonder of bird migration and leaves the reader feeling hopeful—or at least determined—along with being much better informed. This balance, along with the engaging writing style and storytelling make this one of a handful of bird-related books that I consider required reading for anyone interested in birds and conservation.
Bruce M. Beehler’s Flight of the Godwit: Tracking Epic Shorebird Migrations (Smithsonian Books, 2025)
Any birder who has aspired to learn about shorebirds will find a welcome companion in Bruce M. Beehler’s new book, Flight of the Godwit: Tracking Epic Shorebird Migrations. Shorebirds, after all, can be considered somewhat mythical, mysterious beings. Not only do many of them make remarkable annual migrations covering tens of thousands of kilometers, quite a few are notoriously difficult to identify. Certainly, Braden and I realized we had entered a more advanced stage of learning when we started to search out and try to identify shorebirds and, in fact, we both often still struggle with figuring out some of the more difficult shorebird species. Yet the more we encounter and learn about these birds, the more we love them—and that same kind of passion radiates from Beehler’s words as he sets out on his own journeys to observe and learn more about these birds.
In Montana, we are lucky to host three of the “Magnificent Seven” shorebirds as breeders—including Marbled Godwits, one of the focal birds of Beehler’s new book.
In Flight of the Godwit, Beehler recounts a series of recent adventures across the US and Canada to follow and observe shorebirds as they migrate north, stop over at resting and staging sites, settle on breeding grounds, and then head south again for their long non-breeding seasons. Although Beehler discusses all of our North American shorebirds at some point, he clearly targets what he calls the Magnificent Seven: Hudsonian Godwit, Marbled Godwit, Bar-tailed Godwit, Long-billed Curlew, Whimbrel, Bristle-thighed Curlew, and Upland Sandpiper. As he shares his encounters, he sprinkles in liberal amounts of natural history and personal experiences about these birds to make the book much more than a birder’s travelogue.
This Marbled Godwit checked us out as we were scoping shorebirds in Westby last summer.
That said, the travelogue aspects of the book are a big part of what fascinated me about this tale. Even after eleven years of birding, my shorebird experiences have been much more limited than I would like. Although my home in Montana is fortunate to host a number of breeding shorebirds—including three of the Magnificent Seven—for most shorebirds, we get only brief glimpses of them as they pass through in spring and fall. Partly because of this, Braden and I have especially sought out shorebirds on our out-of-state travels to Texas, New England, and the West Coast. Sigh. It is never enough.
It always surprises new birders that some of our largest shorebirds actually breed in grasslands—including Long-billed Curlews.
As I followed Beehler up through the Midwest during spring migration and around Alaska during breeding season, his experiences filled in giant gaps in my own experience with these remarkable birds. I got a better sense of where the birds stop to refuel and rest, and my vague impressions of their nesting territories and habits were sharpened by Beehler’s actual observations and descriptions. Many times, I found myself nodding my head thinking, Yeah, I know what he’s talking about or Oh, so that’s what they’re doing. All of this felt especially satisfying since there’s a good chance I will never experience many of Beehler’s destinations for myself.
As much time as I try to spend with shorebirds, it is never enough. Flight of the Godwit helped fill in many of the experiences I probably will never have for myself.
Those who will appreciate Flight of the Godwit the most probably are birders who have already spent time observing shorebirds and struggling over their identifications. Those with limited shorebird experience may find themselves getting a bit lost as Beehler throws out bird names that may seem a bit abstract without solid brain images to connect them to. Still, there’s a good chance that even beginning “shorbers” will find that Beehler’s tales of adventure excite them to plunge more deeply into this remarkable set of birds. As for intermediate and advanced birders—especially those who may never get to Alaska or follow spring migration through the Midwest—I highly recommend this intriguing book that is not only a valuable educational document, but a labor of love with which many of us can relate.
You can order Flight of the Godwit from almost any outlet that sells books—but why not visit your local independent bookstore and order it there? Another easy way to do this is through the online website Bookshop.org.
Instead of your regularly-scheduled blog, we today invite FSB readers to join in on an urgent appeal to help protect one of North America’s coolest and most vital bird habitats—the globally important Bolivar Peninsula. Learn more and donate by clicking here—or on the Piping Plover below.
If you’ve followed FatherSonBirding—or read my books Birding for Boomers or Warblers & Woodpeckers: A Father-Son Big Year of Birding—you know that High Island and the Bolivar Peninsula outside of Houston have played pivotal roles in Braden’s and my birding experiences. In these locations, the Houston Audubon Society (HAS) has worked tirelessly to obtain, restore, and protect vital habitat for both migrating and resident birds. On our first visit to High Island and the Bolivar Peninsula in 2016, Braden and I saw an astounding forty-five Life Birds in one day! These included everything from Scarlet Tanagers and Least Terns to Piping, Black-bellied, and Semipalmated Plovers.
Braden and I saw our first-ever Piping Plovers on the Bolivar Peninsula, and I was lucky to see this endangered species again on a subsequent visit.
Even though I live in Montana, I became an annual supporter of HAS shortly after that visit. Even better, I have been fortunate to visit the area three more times. Every trip has been a highlight of my birding career. Each time, I have seen gobs of amazing songbirds, shorebirds, and waders, and learned a ton about birds. Just check out some of my past posts about visiting the region:
Unfortunately, during my visits, I also have noticed an inescapable fact: the Bolivar Peninsula is being developed at an astounding rate and the reason is clear: beachfront property. During our first visit there, Braden and I noticed quite a few houses along the 25-mile or so stretch of the peninsula. On each subsequent visit, I was blown away by how many new houses had sprung up since my previous visit! On my most recent trip, this past April, I realized with dismay that the entire peninsula would soon be wall-to-wall housing developments.
One of dozens of major housing developments that have sprung up on the Bolivar Peninsula since Braden and I first visited in 2016.
I can’t even begin to explain how poorly-conceived this kind of rampant development is. Never mind that it has gobbled up some of the best remaining Gulf Coast wildlife habitat, it is virtually guaranteed that hurricanes will totally destroy these developments as they have in the past—and with increasing frequency thanks to climate change (see this Hurricane Ike story and this astonishing storm list). In fact, the ability of the peninsula in its natural state to block tidal surges, prevent erosion, and soak up storm water economically outweighs by far the short-term profits from this get-rich-quick development.
Rampant development in coastal areas not only destroys critical habitat, it greatly diminishes the ability of the coast to withstand hurricanes and other major storms. Though I’d love to enjoy a beachfront house like this myself, economically it is a lose-lose situation, both for homeowners and taxpayers, who often get stuck with paying the bills for disaster cleanup and rebuilding.
Still, the lure of fast profits is just too much here as it is in many other places. And that’s why I’m writing this post. Right now is one of our last best chances to protect what remains of this globally vital birding habitat. How? Currently, HAS owns and manages more than 3,000 acres of Bolivar Peninsula habitat—natural islands in an expanding sea of development. And yet, right at the entrance to their Bolivar Flats Shorebird Sanctuary, a new development recently cropped up. Ironically dubbed the Sanderling Development, it threatened to wipe out critical habitat and destroy a buffer to the core of the Bolivar refuge. The good news? Through heroic efforts, HAS managed to raise $3 million to buy 25 acres of the land this past July. Now, however, they need another $3 million to complete purchase of the remaining 27 acres of the property. This land is so vital that for the first time in decades, HAS has issued a public appeal for funds—And that’s where we come in!
Just one of many Bolivar housing developments, the proposed Sanderling Development directly threatened the ecological integrity of the Bolivar Flats refuge right across the road. However, HAS still needs to raise $3 million to complete the property’s acquisition. Click on this photo to donate!
No matter where we live, securing this last bit of property should be a major priority for birders. Not only does it help provide essential stop-over areas for millions of migrating birds that spread out across the continent, it helps protect critical breeding and wintering habitat. Endangered Piping Plovers, Black Rails, and Red Knots are just three endangered species among hundreds of other species that use this important area.
A fall Long-billed Curlew at Bolivar Flats—perhaps just returned from breeding in Montana?
So how about it? Do you have $25 to chip in? $100? $1000? If you do, I can say with confidence that your money will rarely be better spent. Along with donating, why not plan a spring or fall trip down to the area? If you are fortunate enough to be able to do this, I can almost guarantee it will be one of the highlights of your birding experiences. You also will not have the slightest doubt that your investment in this area is one of the best you will ever make. To donate, CLICK HERE NOW!
And with that, I will sign off so I can make a contribution myself!
Houston Audubon’s Bolivar Peninsula’s sanctuaries are not only vital for Texas birds, but for breeding birds throughout North America.
Today, we continue Braden’s epic birding trip from Maine to Montana with an astonishing visit to a place few people get to experience: Algonquin Provincial Park. Enjoy this latest installment, and if you’d like to support FatherSonBirding and independent journalism, please consider buying one of Sneed’s books shown to the right. Oh, and please share this post!
Twelve hours west of the Maine border, I spotted the giant sign reading “Welcome to Algonquin Provincial Park.” When many birders think of Canada, they imagine huge tracts of boreal conifer forest filled with the birds of the north: Canada Jays, Yellow-bellied Flycatchers, crossbills and, of course, Black-backed Woodpeckers and Spruce Grouse. Much of my drive from western Maine towards Ontario did not give that impression at all. In fact, the part of Canada that includes Montreal and Ottawa (both cities that I drove through) is lower altitude than western New England, and much of it lies in the St. Lawrence River Valley, a warmer, more humid region filled with deciduous forests, agriculture and suburbs. The area reminded me more of central Pennsylvania or New Jersey than of western New England, despite being at a similar latitude.
But Algonquin Provincial Park was noticeably different from the St. Lawrence River Valley. Three hours west of Ottawa, this large preserve sat at a higher elevation than the valley. The soil was rockier and because of that, far more conifers grew here, especially around the various lakes and bogs scattered through the park. Finally, I felt like I was back in good boreal habitat.
Algonquin Provincial Park represented a significant departure from lower altitude St. Lawrence River Valley only a few hours away.
I wasn’t allowed to camp in the park without paying a hefty fine, so I pitched my tent on a dirt road right outside it, in what appeared to be a site for keeping horses on the shore of a large lake. As dusk fell, I heard the twitter of an American Woodcock displaying high above. I’d seemingly settled in the middle of his territory, and he kept me company all night as I dreamed of what birds I’d see the next day.
My impromptu campsite outside of the park rewarded me with an American Woodcock that serenaded me to sleep.
After a short walk around my campsite at dawn, during which I detected a few Cape May Warblers, I headed into the park. My first location: the Spruce Bog Boardwalk. Spruce bogs, which I’d gotten to know during my time in Maine and the Northeast, are strange, almost other-worldly habitats scattered across the northern United States. Generally consisting of an outer area dominated by spruce trees with a core of peat moss floating atop water, they are home to a variety of unique species including carnivorous plants like pitcher plants and sundews. Because of their unique habitat structures, spruce bogs are also havens for a variety of boreal bird species that are otherwise less common in more southern parts of their range. So, as I set foot on the boardwalk, I found myself once again searching for Spruce Grouse and Black-backed Woodpecker—species I find myself looking for frequently.
Extensive searching brought no luck, although I did find more boreal warblers, including several Cape May Warblers and another great look at a Bay-breasted. I also heard a Lincoln’s Sparrow, my first of the year, singing from the wet back half of the bog. I had much of the day to bird Algonquin Park, so after striking out on my main targets at the boardwalk, I decided to take a short stop at the visitor center.
I had hoped for both Black-backed Woodpeckers and Spruce Grouse in this spruce bog, but struck out with both species.
Within ten seconds of pulling out onto the road my Toyota RAV4 screeched to a halt. There, ten feet away, staring me down, stood a huge female moose. The animal had to be at least five feet tall, though from my seat in the car it seemed a lot taller! After we shared several seconds of each other’s presence, the moose trotted off into the woods. I didn’t end up seeing any of my bird targets at the visitor center and the center itself was closed, but I was now filled with adrenaline—I’d just scored my most wanted mammal of the trip!
Next, I hit Rock Lake Road. While I hadn’t seen many reports of my target boreal birds here, I figured that this road—a dirt track winding past marshes and through patches of spruce and budding Paper Birch—was as good a spot to try as any! Over the next hour and a half I drove slowly with my head out the window. Again, no woodpecker and no grouse, but I ended up tallying 40 species, 15 of which were warblers! Nashville and Magnolia were the most abundant, along with a smattering of Black-throated Blue, Blackburnian, Canada and others. Near the beginning of the road I also heard several Wood Thrushes singing, a surprise this far north. Along my drive I was also accompanied by the near-constant drumming of Ruffed Grouse, and the loud, piercing whistles of a pair of Broad-winged Hawks.
Though I continued to strike out on BBWOs and SPGRs, Algonquin presented a nice assortment of warblers including Nashvilles, always a favorite!
At this point I admit that I was feeling a bit ungrateful. I’d been birding for three or four hours and had not so much as glimpsed either of my targets—birds that were supposed to be somewhat regular within the park, and had compelled me to drive through Canada in the first place. Sure, I’d seen some great birds and a moose. But if I went the whole day without getting a Black-backed or a Spruce Grouse, I was going to be a bit salty. I jumped on eBird to check on any recent reports of either of them nearby and elected to visit, as my last stop of the morning, Pog Lake Campground. A Black-backed Woodpecker had been seen there only a few days before, and I figured it would be my best chance before continuing my journey west. I parked the car and began walking toward Pog Lake, keeping my ears and eyes peeled for my target species. One of the first birds I heard was a Tennessee Warbler, another boreal species with an electric song, singing loudly from a campsite nearby. I recorded it and continued onwards.
Then, I came across Campsite #512. Surrounded by gorgeous coniferous trees, it at first seemed just like any other campsite in Pog Lake Campground. The first thing that made Campsite #512 stick out, though, was the Ruffed Grouse drumming in the bushes nearby. Now, I’ve heard plenty of Ruffed Grouse drumming in my life—and had heard dozens on this trip already. Seeing one in action was a different story. I’d tried to sneak up on them before, but was always unsuccessful—the birds would flush from under my feet. However, this particular bird sounded incredibly close so I shelved my other goals and went into full stealth mode, sneaking towards the campsite to see if I could watch the grouse in action. After about ten minutes of tiptoeing around, I heard the beating of its wings—and that’s when I spotted it. Through ten feet of dense foliage, there the grouse stood, its wings striking its chest to make the sound that you feel more than hear.
I promptly sat down and spent the next thirty minutes with that grouse. Every five minutes or so, it would stand upright on its mossy log and begin its display. Bom-bom-bom-bom-bom-bom-bom. I watched it drum five or six times—with and without binoculars, and filmed it on my phone’s camera. It was magical. (Click the above image to watch my short clip.)
After twenty minutes, I also heard honking overhead. At first, I couldn’t see any birds above me, but I figured it was just a flyover flock of Canada Geese, though the calls sounded a bit strange. Then, in the gap above Campsite #512, I spotted several flocks of two hundred or so geese—and quickly realized that these were not Canadas. Between a bad view I got through my binoculars and listening to their sounds on Merlin, I realized I’d just seen a massive flock of Brant migrating over me, headed for the Arctic! I’d never seen these birds away from the ocean and never in such numbers! Sure enough, though, Algonquin Park lies right in the middle of Brant’s narrow migration route across Canada, and I’d just happened to be in the right place at the right time.
The Brant disappeared into the distance and the grouse drummed again, and I decided that, even though I hadn’t found my targets, I felt more than satisfied with my experience with Pog Lake Campground. But Campsite #512 hadn’t finished with me.
As I slowly stood, taking care not to startle the grouse, I heard strange, frantic calls coming from the woods on the other side of the campsite. I quickly recognized them as calls I’d been listening for all morning, and suddenly, a male Black-backed, decked out in sleek black feathers with a yellow cap, flew into the campsite. It landed on a downed log near me, and proceeded to hop along the ground, getting closer and closer to until it stood only five feet away! It either didn’t notice me or didn’t care, poking for insects in the roots of the nearby spruce trees. After a minute or two, the woodpecker flew away, leaving me debating if I should EVER leave Campsite #512.
My best-ever look at a Black-backed Woodpecker will forever embed Campsite 512 in my birding heart.
As you can probably guess, I did continue on my journey, but knew that my visit to Campsite #512 would become one of my most memorable birding mornings ever, one that would be etched in my brain for a long, long time.
Today, we are pleased to offer the third in Braden’s series about his adventures driving across the country from Maine to Montana. Already, it’s been an incredible birding journey—and he’s not even out of Maine! Sneed is also pleased to announce that two of his books, Birding for Boomers and Like No Other, have been named finalists for the High Plains International Book Awards. We hope some of you Montana residents will join Sneed for the celebration and to crown the winners at the awards ceremony in Billings on October 4th!
I had never seen so many American Redstarts. The birches and maples standing on the northern tip of Sears Island, at times, had more warblers on their branches than leaves. According to Wesley Hutchins, this was the norm for Sears Island during spring, and part of the reason why he’d been wanting to bring me here since we’d become friends four years ago.
I’d met Wes a month or two after arriving at the University of Maine, and thanks to the hours and days we’d spent together exploring the forests and coasts of the state, I now considered him one of my closest friends. Wes and I kept in close contact during the summers when we worked out-of-state (California and Pennsylvania for me, New York for him), keeping each other updated on all of the awesome birds we were seeing around the country. He’d graduated a year before me, but still visited UMaine every week to spend time with me and his other friends there. I had never visited his hometown of Belfast, however, despite it being only an hour away from the campus where I’d gone to college. This week, I was bent on changing that, and now here I was birding the spots that he’d fallen in love with over the last few years.
Selfie of me and Wes at one of his favorite birding spots, Sears Island, Maine.
“It’s really weird seeing you here—in the good way!” Wes admitted, and I nodded. I’m sure I would feel the same way once I finally convinced him to visit me in Montana.
We’d spent the previous evening walking around Belfast Harbor, a pleasant little cove tucked away into the side of Maine’s midcoast region and another one of Wes’s favorite birding spots. This morning, however, he’d taken me to Sears Island, Waldo County’s best birding hotspot and a prime location to see migrating warblers. Upon setting foot on the island, I began to notice warblers—redstarts, a Chestnut-sided, a Northern Waterthrush—but nothing out of the ordinary. I’d been seeing warblers like this all week. We wandered a bit, down into the forested center of the island, but things stayed eerily quiet. After about twenty minutes, Wes turned to me and said, “We should go back to the northern point. That’s usually where all the action is.”
Unlike the other warblers, Sears Island’s Ovenbirds were keeping pretty quiet on the day Wes and I visited.
I felt skeptical. I much prefer walking around to staying in one spot to bird, but Wes had the local knowledge so I followed his lead. We walked back and we immediately began to see birds we hadn’t seen just twenty minutes ago—a Blackburnian Warbler and a couple of Magnolias. Then, I looked up.
In the sky above us floated dozens of warblers, all seeping and chipping as they struggled to combat the winds rushing over the island. Many of the birds faced north, while others zoomed in from the north, landing in the trees directly to our right and left. We stationed ourselves directly in front of a flowering apple tree that seemed to be overflowing the warblers and began calling things out.
“I’ve got two Magnolias on the same branch.”
“Is that a Tenness—no, it’s just a REVI.”
“Here’s our third Wilson’s of the day, a nice male!”
“Six redstarts in this one tree alone. Scratch that, seven.”
One of approximately one hundred American Redstarts we counted at Sears Island.
What we were experiencing was a river of warblers. Every three minutes or so, the birds we’d been staring at would vacate and be replaced by new birds dropping in from above, all slowly making their way toward the causeway that connected Sears Island to the mainland. One in every three warblers was an American Redstart, and there were easily hundreds of warblers. Mixed in with the warblers were small numbers of other species: vireos, flycatchers, a couple Rose-breasted Grosbeaks. It was exactly the experience I’d hoped to have when I’d signed up to go to school on the east coast. The West doesn’t do songbird migration like the East does, especially when it comes to warblers. Montana has fourteen regularly-occurring species of warblers. On Sears Island, we’d seen fourteen species in a matter of minutes.
Rose-breasted Grosbeaks added further spice to an incredible wave of warblers migrating in!
My focus had been warblers the whole week, in fact, with the notable exception of the Acadia Puffin Cruise (see our recent post, Puffin Party). Just a day or two earlier, I’d spent two nights in Portland, Maine, with my good friend Hayden Page. We’d birded hard, visiting many of Maine’s famous birding hotspots like Scarborough Marsh, Laudholm Farm and Portland’s urban Capisic Park. The morning we’d hit Laudholm Farm had been incredible, with 81 species at the preserve including seventeen warbler species and a White-eyed Vireo, a rarity this far north. At an airport in Brunswick, Main, we’d also chased a Blue-winged Warbler—another southerner not supposed to be here. In the coming decades it wasn’t hard to imagine both the vireo and the warbler showing up more and more frequently in Maine thanks to warming temperatures and changes in habitat.
A Blue-winged Warbler—an unusual migrant that may become much more common in Maine as global temperatures warm.
The week had also exposed me to the diversity of Maine’s habitats. Living in Bangor during the colder months, my impressions of the state had mostly been of woods. And it is true that Maine has woods—it’s the most forested state in the country. But southern Maine, especially, holds its fair share of unique ecosystems. Kennebunk Plains Preserve, which I’d visited twice this spring, is a patch of grassland with Vesper and Grasshopper Sparrows and Eastern Meadowlarks. It is regularly burned to keep shrubs and trees from encroaching on it. Grassland used to be far more common in the state, following the intensive logging of the 1800 and 1900s, but now that the forest had grown back Kennebunk Plains was one of the only spots for certain species to be found.
Scarborough Marsh, which my dad and I had visited when we’d come out to Maine in fall of 2021 (see this post), held the largest chunk of salt marsh in the state. This habitat, which looks like a savannah floating on the edge of the sea, is also threatened, both in the state and worldwide, thanks to rising sea levels. The birds that live here include Willets and Saltmarsh Sparrows, the latter of which was the focus of my Honors Thesis Project and is one of North America’s most endangered birds.
A Willet, one of our most common large shorebirds, at Scarborough Marsh.
Southern Maine is also a prime location for sandy beaches, and both the birds and the tourists know it. Maine’s coastal towns go from sleepy and affordable in winter to bustling and expensive during the summer, when Americans from all over flock to them to enjoy the summer. This has created problems with the wildlife that depend on sandy beaches as their homes, namely the Piping Plover and Least Tern, two species who spend their days hunting for invertebrates along the coastline and breed in the grassy dunes just upland of the beach. Thankfully, the state of Maine has put in a lot of work to close off these dunes to tourists and their destructive dogs, allowing the birds to nest in a fragile security. At Pine Point, just five minutes from Scarborough Marsh, Hayden and I got to watch a trio of Piping Plovers chasing each other around the beach at close range. It was also at Pine Point that I got to see my lifer Roseate Terns, along with the more common Least and Commons.
Keeping Piping Plover populations going requires careful monitoring and protection from the swarms of people and dogs crowding East Coast beaches each summer.
Though I’d always joked about the cold weather, lack of mountains, and isolation of Maine, I was certainly going to miss the state I’d spent four years getting to know. The places AND the people. This was especially present in my mind after giving Wes a hug goodbye and driving away from Belfast, from the University, and from some of the best friends I’d ever made. I would make sure to see them again, though it would never quite be the same. Thankfully, I had one more night to spend in Maine before leaving, though it wouldn’t be in the comfort of a friend’s air mattress. No, I was headed for the last county I’d never visited in the state: Franklin County, the land of wind, mountains and moose.
