Here is Part 2 of Braden’s and my eastern Montana trip report, which began with a wonderful time at the Wings Across the Big Sky birding festival in Helena (see our last post by clicking here). Today’s installment details this year’s visit to one of our favorite birding destinations, Bowdoin National Wildlife Refuge, and then our evening birding and camping at Fort Peck.Enjoy and please feel free to share this post!
After our two days enjoying scintillating field trips and lectures at this year’s Wings Across the Big Sky birding festival in Helena, Braden and I spent two nights at American Prairie’s Antelope Creek Campground. I’d tell you what we were doing there, but for now at least, our lips are sealed. On Tuesday morning, however, we rose early, packed the car and headed toward what has become an annual favorite father-son destination: 15,551-acre Bowdoin National Wildlife Refuge.
You know you’ve reached eastern Montana when you start seeing Franklin’s Gulls. These gulls were made famous by ZZ Top’s classic hit, “Sharp-Dressed Gulls!”
It had actually been a couple of years since Braden and I visited Bowdoin together, so we especially relished this year’s opportunity. Bowdoin offers a wonderful mix of wetlands and prairie habitat where you can find a terrific diversity of birds. Even better, this year’s water levels showed a significant improvement over last year, when it looked as though the main lake might dry up altogether.
Aaaaaw. Baby Killdeer at Bowdoin!
Unfortunately, today, windy conditions proved a challenge, especially in the grassland sections. While usually we can just drive with the windows open, listening for various songs, this year we generally had to keep the windows rolled up to keep from being sand-blasted by wind and dust. The wind also forced the smaller sparrows that we especially sought to sit down in the grass where they were difficult if not impossible to see. Only the intrepid meadowlarks braved the tops of sage plants, being blown back and forth as if they were on a carnival ride.
We saw at least 18 Willets while driving the Bowdoin loop—a record for us there. These birds, like several other shorebirds, breed in the grasslands around the main lake.
Nonetheless, thanks to diligence and Braden’s great ears, we managed to locate at least a few Chestnut-collared Longspurs, Lark Buntings, and Grasshopper, Lark, Clay-colored, Savannah, and Song Sparrows.
We also got great looks at White-faced Ibises, Willets, American Avocets, and other “usual suspects” in the aquatic realm. It’s always reassuring to see the hundreds of white pelicans nesting out on the main island.
We never get tired of seeing Wilson’s Phalaropes, which breed at Bowdoin NWR in good numbers.
One bird we especially missed was a Baltimore Oriole, which we usually see by stopping at the refuge visitor center before driving the big loop. After we finished the loop, however, we decided to give the BAORs one more shot and sat in our car munching our turkey-and-cheese sandwiches. Sure enough, after ten minutes, a bright orange bird with a black head flew across our vision! Sometimes, you just gotta be patient. All told, we observed 76 species at Bowdoin. But our day had not yet finished.
I’ve always felt captivated by these giant Art Deco power station towers at Fort Peck Dam. By camping here, we discovered that the towers are brilliantly lit up at night—a strange effect so far from “civilization.”
After Bowdoin, we drove to Fort Peck to spend the night camping below the dam. I’ve always been fascinated with the story of the Fort Peck dam and how, out in the middle of nowhere, a medium-sized city sprang up to build what, at the time, was by far the largest dam in the world. Today, it is still impressive, stretching more than four miles long, and “looked over” by two large (and to me beautiful) Art Deco power plant towers.
Who said Fort Peck doesn’t have fine dining?
Braden and I found a cozy campsite, set up our tents, and set out to explore the extensive campground. Our top target here were Field Sparrows. We didn’t see any. But we did get an unexpected triple shot of orioles: Baltimore, Bullock’s, and Orchard, all of which dropped by our campsite at least once.
Fort Peck gave us by far our most cooperative experience ever with Baltimore Orioles. This male was part of at least two breeding pairs we found in the campground.
We also got great looks at another Montana favorite, Brown Thrashers, the first of quite a few we would see on our trip.
One of our favorite Montana birds, Brown Thrashers would put in several appearances on our trip, including right in our Fort Peck campsite!
We generally try to avoid staying at large campgrounds, which can be noisy and sterile, but I was glad we gave Fort Peck a try. Even though my sleeping pad kept deflating through the night, the campground was a bit out of the wind, and offered up birds aplenty! Besides, how could I dislike a place that featured my book Beaver & Otter Get Along . . . Sort Of on its summer reading program? Tomorrow, we would try more prairie birding and hope that the wind would die down . . . but would it? Stay tuned for our next report!
As we were lining up our campsite, Braden suddenly exclaimed, “Oh my god! It’s your book!” Helped make my day!Thank you Fort Peck!
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!
With this post, I am officially back from Japan—and loving the spring birding around Montana. In this episode, I revisit one of our favorite Montana places to bird, Bear Canyon. As is often the case, I was hot on the heels of one of my nemesis birds, Sagebrush Sparrow. Thanks for following along—and Happy Mother’s Day and Global Big Day!
When I shared my most recent Montana birding list with my friend, Roger, he joked, “Does Montana have secret tropical zones I’m not aware of?” I answered, “It does. It’s called Bear Canyon.”
In all honesty, to call Bear Canyon tropical is a stretch, but it may be the state’s best example of the Big Basin habitat that dominates much of the interior West—and it’s probably the best place to pick up “southern leaning” species that are truly elusive elsewhere in the state. These include Blue-gray Gnatcatcher, Gray Flycatcher, Sage Thrasher, Pinyon Jay, and my nemesis bird, Sagebrush Sparrow. When I was invited for some speaking events in the Billings area in early May, in fact, Bear Canyon immediately popped to mind. Studying the eBird bar charts it looked I might be a tad early for some of the species there—but that didn’t stop me from going for it. I was on the road from Billings by 6:30 and pulled up to a rocky parking spot at the mouth of the canyon just before 8:30. Two gorgeous Lark Sparrows greeted me as I parked. A good omen.
View looking down toward the mouth of Bear Canyon—truly one of Montana’s magical places.A pair of Lark Sparrows greeted me as I parked—the best views I’ve ever had of these handsome, charismatic birds.
As I hiked up and over a small hump into the canyon, the birds wasted no time revealing themselves. A Rock Wren—my first of the year—belted out its scratchy, repetitive song from the top of a juniper tree, and almost immediately, another song caught my attention. I punched in Sound ID and pumped my fist. “Yeah! Gray Flycatcher!” Moments later, I observed the bird a hundred yards away—the first of half a dozen Gray Flycatchers I would see that morning. Sound ID also recorded Brewer’s Sparrows and Green-tailed Towhees, but since I don’t know their calls and didn’t see either one, I didn’t record them. It also picked up my nemesis, Sagebrush Sparrow—but I think that was an error since to my knowledge they are rarely reported in the canyon itself.
Seeing Gray Flycatchers was a treat, but to have one pose a reasonably short distance away added greatly to the experience.
A host of other birds also showed including Chipping Sparrows, Mountain Bluebirds, Mountain Chickadees, and Vesper Sparrows—but that still left some big misses including Blue-gray Gnatcatchers (too early) and Pinyon Jays (probably off in another canyon). Still, it was a spectacular morning, and Bear Canyon was about as pretty a place I could ever hope to have all to myself.
A pair of Mountain Bluebirds definitely added a splash of color to the sagebrush country.How can you not love Chipping Sparrows. They make me smile every time I see one.
After two hours, I returned to the car and moved onto the next phase of my day—searching for Sage Thrashers and Sagebrush Sparrows. Driving south down a dirt road from the canyon, I remembered Braden’s advice to get out and actually walk through the sagebrush if I really wanted to find the sparrow. I dutifully did this three times. The first time, a jackrabbit about scared the sagebrush out of me! However, I also was rewarded with actual looks at the Brewer’s Sparrows I had been hearing in Bear Canyon proper, which was great. In fact it was the first time I actually got to study these handsome, but subtle, birds and watch them sing.
As drab as they are, Brewer’s Sparrows truly are gorgeous when you give them a close look. They are closely related to Clay-colored Sparrows, a species I have yet to see in 2023. Hey, that rhymes!This jackrabbit burst out of the brush in front of me. As my dad might have said, “It scared the pee-waddin’ out of me!”
My second walk revealed more Brewer’s Sparrows, along with numerous Vesper Sparrows, Horned Larks, and Western Meadowlarks that inundated the area.
Which brings me to my third walk—and you’re going to guess that’s when I finally found a Sagebrush Sparrow, right? Alas, no. As I was walking back toward the car, however, a large bird suddenly burst into the air right in front of me. Its wings sounded like a helicopter. I immediately knew it was some kind of grouse, and guessed it was a Greater Sage-Grouse. Watching it fly away through binoculars, though, I just couldn’t be sure. Darn, I thought. That would have been super cool. Only a few footsteps later, though, SIX of the big birds leaped out of the sage and thundered away—and this time there was no doubt. I caught bold black and white head markings on a couple of the grouse, and even more revealing, black bellies on most of them. I was elated! This was the first time I’d seen Greater Sage-Grouse since birding with Nick and Braden six years before and to find them on my own, well, it felt like an accomplishment.
I haven’t talked much about it much, but this was some of the best country ever for Western Meadowlarks and Vesper Sparrows—and pretty decent for Horned Larks, too.
Disappointingly, I saw not a trace of Sage Thrasher, a bird Braden and I had seen here in numbers only three years before. According to the eBird bar charts, they should have been here, too. And the Sagebrush Sparrow? Well, to be honest, I didn’t expect to find one of those on my own. After all, it was a nemesis bird, right? Still, I clung to the memories of the Greater Sage-Grouse as I continued driving down the dirt road, and just tried to appreciate the magnificent sagebrush and snow-covered mountains around me.
Eventually, the road connected with a larger dirt road, and I turned right. I could see the highway up ahead, but coming around a corner I spotted a small bird landing on a bush fifty yards away. Better look, I told myself. I parked the car and whipped my binoculars to my eyes.
Then, I started to get excited.
The bird definitely looked like a sparrow, but with a darker head. It was partly obscured by a branch, so I took a few steps to the left, praying it wouldn’t fly away. It didn’t. And that was enough to confirm it—my first and only Sagebrush Sparrow!
AT LAST! Right when I’d about given up hope, a gorgeous adult Sagebrush Sparrow decided I’d worked hard enough to find him! Thank you!
The bird flew across the road to another bush and I pulled the car up a bit closer before again getting out. Now, I had a fairly distant, but wonderful view of the bird as it sang its melodious song. Nemesis no more! I thought and watched it for several minutes before it flew off. I thanked the bird and this remarkable ecosystem, and then headed back to Billings.
A tradition Braden and I have formed over the years is to make top birds lists after any big trip or, as this year, for our entire year of birding. This probably stems from the many hours I listened to Casey Kasem counting down the American Top 40 every weekend as a youth. Our own “Top 40” lists have diverged a bit since Braden is now on the East Coast for most of the year—but this year we still managed to have a lot of birding adventures together, and so have a lot of common birds on our list. It’s funny, though, how some birds we might have been super excited about when we first saw them often drift lower on the list. I suppose it’s like being super excited about Barry Manilow when you first heard him—and then realizing you could be listening to the likes of the Rolling Stones, Neil Young, and John Lee Hooker. Anyway, we thought you might enjoy our Top 10 birds of 2022—and hope you might share some of your own!
# 10
Coming in at Number 10 for Braden was the Florida Scrub-Jay, which is remarkably vulnerable in Florida, but Braden got to see with his birding buddy Nick Ramsey on their epic Spring Break Florida adventure. Read about it here. Sneed’s #10 was an unlikely Cape May Warbler—his Lifer—that he spotted in front of the house of his good friends Mollie and Craig Bloomsmith in Atlanta this fall.
Florida Scrub-Jays are the only bird species entirely restricted to Florida.
#9
Braden had excellent adventures with Northern Saw-whet Owls while out in California, running into some adorable juveniles while thrashing through the woods during his job with the Institute for Bird Populations. Elegant Trogon finished #9 on Sneed’s list—an exotic bird if there ever was one! And yet, both Braden and Sneed wondered why this bird didn’t finish higher on either of their lists. Probably just too much on the beaten birding path. (Photo at top of the blog.)
Non-stop birding for his job throughout the summer led Braden to a remarkable encounter with these juvenile Northern Saw-whet Owls.
Zone-tailed Hawks are well-known mimics of Turkey Vultures and often hang out with them—which is where we spotted this one at Madera Canyon, Arizona; only our second ZTHA ever.
#7
Ah, who doesn’t love a Swallow-tailed Kite—especially one that swoops right over your head? Braden obviously DOES, as yet another bird from his Florida trip snagged a Top Ten spot. Sneed, meanwhile, went with the shockingly beautiful Scott’s Oriole for Lucky Number 7. He and Braden both fell in love with these birds, and were lucky enough to see them several times on their Arizona adventures. In fact . . .
Braden never tired of seeing Swallow-tailed Kites on his and Nick’s epic Florida adventure.
#6
Scott’s Oriole grabbed Braden’s Number 6 while Sneed went with Sulphur-bellied Flycatcher, also in Arizona, in a case that he couldn’t quite explain. “There was just something mysterious and intriguing about that bird,” he was quoted as telling a New York Times reporter.
Though relatively widespread in the Southwest, Scott’s Oriole is a bird Braden and I wondered if we’d ever really get to see—or even if it really existed. It does!
#5
Unfortunately, the same New York Times reporter caught Sneed cheating for Number 5, as he listed THREE birds tied for #5: Mexican Whip-poor-will, Whiskered Screech-Owl, and Elf Owl. “How can you possibly justify this?” demanded the reporter. “Well, I only ever heard these three birds, but we listened to them on a magical night in Portal, walking down a darkened road. It’s just a night that Braden and I won’t ever forget.” Meanwhile Braden went with his many amazing experiences with Prairie Warblers this year for his #5 spot, seeing them throughout Florida, including the Everglades, in Maine, and during the Collard Family’s epic New York City trip in May.
It blew Braden’s mind to learn that Prairie Warblers breed in the mangroves of Florida.
#4
The night walk in Portal also left a big impression on Braden, giving him his Number 4 in the form of Mexican Whip-poor-will. Sneed, meanwhile, went with Red-faced Warbler, spotted just a few miles and a couple thousand feet away—the first, and still only, RFWA the father-son duo has ever seen.
Another fairly common Southwest bird that had eluded us until this trip, the Red-faced Warbler immediately captured our hearts. This is still the only we have ever seen.
#3
Number 3 is getting into some Serious Birds, and Braden selected Spotted Owl for his. Not only did Sneed and Braden both see them for the first time in the Chiricahuas, Braden got to see the California subspecies several times during his summer job. Sneed went with his recently self-found Long-tailed Duck—the first male he had ever seen—and one he discovered pretty much in his backyard near Missoula.
When you find a bird by yourself, it naturally ranks higher in a Year List. Such was the case with this male Long-tailed Duck Sneed found near Frenchtown last fall.
#2
Braden paid for his Number 2 bird, Long-tailed Jaeger (a second cousin to former lead singer for the Rolling Stones) with repeated upchucking over the side of the boat during his summer pelagic boat trip out of Half Moon Bay. After cavorting with a bunch of Sabine’s Gulls, however, this bird took flight and then passed only ten feet above Braden’s head. He celebrated by once again barfing into the sea. Sneed opted for White-tailed Ptarmigan, just one of the coolest birds on the planet, seen during his and Braden’s stunning hike up to Piegan Pass in Glacier National Park in August.
Blurry photo notwithstanding (or puking as was the case), this Long-tailed Jaeger flew into Braden’s #2 spot for the year.
Drum Roll . . . And their Number 1s are . . .
#1
The adventure and thrill of seeking out and finally finding a LeConte’s Thrasher on the east side of the Sierras stayed with Braden strongly enough to make it his Number 1 Bird of 2022! Remarkably, Spotted Owl, which had been only #4 on Sneed’s Arizona Trip list mounted an epic comeback to grab his Number 1 spot!
Braden’s #1 for 2022: LeConte’s Thrasher!Sneed’s #1 for 2022: Spotted Owl
Thanks for tuning in as we’ve relived our top birds. Be sure to click on the links to get the full accounts, and may 2023 generate a memorable list for you, too!
When he first learned about his job in the Sierras, Braden never expected that it would provide him with a great opportunity to observe hard-to-find sagebrush species—including some of our top Nemesis Birds!It also helped move him closer to his revised Big Year goal of 500 species and the coveted 1,000 species mark on his Life List!
A concept my dad and I have perfected over the years is that of putting in a certain number of hours to locate every bird species. Unfortunately (or perhaps, fortunately), not every bird will just be sitting there in the parking lot when you arrive in a place to look for it, and it is not uncommon to completely miss a highly sought-after species. After a certain number of misses, in fact, that species becomes a nemesis bird. Every birder has or has had a nemesis bird, and that led me to think about the fact that for every single person, the number of hours “required” to see each species is unique. To get a Blue Jay, for example, a birder in the Western United States may have to search for more than ten hours, performing multiple searches at multiple locations to add this bird to his life list, while a beginning birder in Massachusetts may only have to put in five minutes or thirty seconds. Even in less extreme geographical situations, the number of hours people put in for a bird varies. My dad and I invested double-digit hours into finding an American Bittern, whereas other Montana birders just seemed to stumble onto them.
On June 25th, as my co-worker Sam Darmstadt and I crossed Sonora Pass, heading for the dry lands of the eastern side of the Sierras, we had many target birds in mind that I had already logged many hours trying to see. The first was one my dad and I had looked for at least four times, designating it as a nemesis bird, and apparently, I had finally put in enough hours for it, because as soon as we hopped out of the car on a dirt road near Mono Lake, there it was: a Sagebrush Sparrow, posing in perfect view for us on top of its namesake plant.
One of our most handsome sparrows, Sagebrush Sparrow was a nemesis bird my dad and I had searched for multiple times in recent years.
“Was it too easy?” asked Sam, as I snapped photos of this lifer. The open sagebrush plains we stood in appeared to be perfect habitat for the species, and we spotted several more as we continued down the road. In fact, it was one of the only birds in this habitat, along with Sage Thrasher and Brewer’s Sparrow, which also gave us great looks. I glanced at the strange tufa columns (calcium precipitations) rising up from Mono Lake in the distance before getting back in the car on the way to our next target for the day. This was another sage bird, one I’d only seen once and Sam had never seen: Greater Sage-Grouse.
Again, my dad and I (sometimes with Nick in tow) had looked for this species multiple times across the various Eastern Montana locales it frequented, but with very limited success. It had been five years since we’d seen our lifers, a mother with two chicks on Bentonite Road, the same road where everyone in Montana goes to get their Mountain Plovers for the year. Where Sam and I were now, at Lake Crowley, was about as different a place from Bentonite Road as possible while still supporting expansive sagebrush habitat. Ponderosa (or Jeffrey’s) Pines rose in the distance, a symbol of our high elevation despite having left the Sierras. And speaking of the Sierras, there they towered in front of us, their craggy slopes rising towards sharpened peaks sprinkled with lingering snow patches.
The Sierras aren’t just stunning to behold, they have profoundly shaped Western ecosystems and bird species—including some of our top targets to search for.
We slowly drove the dusty road through the sagebrush towards the lake, flushing Horned Larks, Brewer’s Sparrows and yet more Sagebrush Sparrows off the road in front of us. Despite squinting as we scanned for grouse heads, we did not find any. Upon reaching the lake, we added a few water birds to our list, including American Avocet, Long-billed Curlew, Eared Grebe and Ruddy Duck. Then we slowly began making our way back.
The Sierras are an incredibly diverse ecosystem and help make California a biodiversity hotspot, and we experienced that for ourselves on our drive through the sagebrush. Over the mountains above us, dark gray clouds loomed, dumping rain on the rocky peaks. Sam and I both flinched as lightning bolts struck the highest points, the thunder echoing across the valley. However, while many of the clouds drifted over our heads, the rain barely reached us. The Western Sierra had a day full of rain, while over here, we got a few drops at most. This rain shadow, created by the tallest mountains in the Lower 48, allowed sagebrush to flourish here while oak savannah covered the western foothills only twenty miles away. And the mountains didn’t just block storms. They blocked birds, too. Many of California’s famous specialty birds, including Wrentit, California Thrasher and Yellow-billed Magpie, simply could not make it over these mountains. Without the Sierras blocking their paths, these endemic or near-endemic birds probably wouldn’t have evolved into their own species in the first place.
Meanwhile, here on the east side of the mountains, a familiar Black-billed Magpie flew over the car as we turned down one last road in an effort to find grouse. After about a mile, I turned to look over my shoulder just as three giant ground birds erupted from right next to the car, landing a short distance away.
“Grouse!” I shouted, “Get out! Get out!”
This was only the second time I’d ever seen a Greater Sage-Grouse—and was a lifer for Sam!
We soon spotted one of them: a female Greater Sage-Grouse wandering through brush rising up to its shoulders. We high-fived, relishing the moment as we watched the rare bird move away from us.
Farther south, we stopped briefly at a canyon for an unsuccessful try at Black Swift, and filled up at the least expensive gas station we could find in Bishop, California. Continuing down Hwy 395, the mountains grew yet higher, and we soon found ourselves almost under the shadow of Mt. Whitney, the tallest mountain in the Lower 48. We couldn’t see Whitney, but could see many of the other 14,000-footers looming above us, their sides even more devoid of vegetation than the mountains we’d seen farther north. The sage quickly evaporated around us, giving way to desert brush as we left the Great Basin and entered the Mojave. Why had we come so far?
One reason: LeConte’s Thrasher.
This enigmatic thrasher makes its home in some of the most desolate habitats in North America, inspiring Sam’s non-honorific name for it, the Desolation Thrasher. It’s a species my dad and I had already put in several hours searching for, as we explored a barren salt desert on our way from Southeast Arizona to San Diego. This gorgeous, understated bird matches its habitat, its sandy feathers accented by a slightly peach-colored vent. It’s dark eye, a feature it does not share with the rest of the desert thrashers, matches the black color of its extremely curved bill. Almost nothing else lives in the sparse habitats this bird occupies, and needless to say, I had been obsessed with the species since missing it in Arizona a month before.
Our previous plan had been to camp in some nearby hills that night, then look for the thrasher in the morning. However, with time to spare, we decided to head towards a spot that had produced a few reports in previous years.
“Let’s start putting in the hours,” I said as we made the decision, trying to maximize our chances of seeing my number one target for the trip.
While the road wasn’t as desolate as the salt desert my dad and I had searched in Arizona, it certainly was barren. Dry, orange brush rose from the sandy ground, and as we piled out of the car to begin playing for the thrasher, it became clear that birds here were few and far between.
At every stop we made, I played the songs of both LeConte’s Thrasher and Black-chinned Sparrow, the latter another bird we hoped to find. I also pished vigorously at the brush, hoping that these enigmatic birds would respond. After one round of doing this, the situation looked bleak. The only birds we saw were distant ravens on a telephone pole, and temperatures pushed ninety degrees at 5 pm, a radical change from the seventies weather we’d been experiencing only an hour north in sagebrush country. It would have been hotter if not for the storm clouds dumping rain that would never reach us. Another point against us was that the thrashers, and all the desert birds, were significantly less active now that it was almost July. In the desert, spring starts early, and most of the reports on this road had been from March and April.
At the second spot, we added Turkey Vulture to the list, though still couldn’t find any birds actively using the desert habitat. I switched up my playback strategy at the third spot, pishing first then playing the thrasher and sparrow songs. Just as the Black-chinned Sparrow recording stopped, I spotted a bird hop up on a fence to our right. Turning my head, I saw the sandy feathers and curved bill—and freaked out.
“Sam!” I whisper-shouted, “It’s there! It’s there! Do you see it??”
“Oh my god!” was the reply.
I slowly reached for my camera, never taking my eyes off the thrasher. The bird’s tail raised and lowered, and the bird looked around, trying to spot the enemy thrasher that had invaded its territory. After I snapped some surprisingly good photographs, it flew over to another bush. The smiles on our faces could not have been erased by anything, and they remained plastered to our faces for another half an hour. We’d just seen one of North America’s rarest breeding birds—after completely expecting to miss it!
As plain as it first appears, LeConte’s Thrasher was a bird I’d put many hours into finding, and it immediately rocketed into contention for Bird of the Year honors!
The thrasher, the grouse and the sparrow had all been birds I’d looked for before, and June 25th, 2022 had been the day to cash in my hours searching for all three species. Even as I write this now, I am still in shock at the looks this desert shadow provided us with, after only looking for it twice! I’d expected to return home without the thrasher and even more determination to see one, and instead, I’d been given an experience I’d never forget. Within a few minutes, LeConte’s Thrasher was already a contender for my Bird of the Year.
The rest of the trip, driving north the next day, went well and included birding an Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest! Ironically, we found none of our other target species. They were all birds I’d never looked for before: Virginia’s Warbler, Black-chinned Sparrow and Gray Vireo. I guess that means I haven’t yet put in the hours!
