Category Archives: Wading Birds

Birding Ohau: A Hawai’i Report from Roger Kohn

Following Memorial Day, it is fitting that FSB presents a wonderful guest birding post about Hawai’i by Roger Kohn. For many Americans, World War II began in Hawai’i and left few families untouched by the experience. Roger’s dad served in the Navy during the war, and both of my grandfathers (Braden’s great-grandfathers) served in the Pacific. Meanwhile at home, my grandmother and great aunt worked in the huge Pratt & Whitney aircraft engine plant in Kansas City. As we honor all who served, I can’t help wonder how astonished our veterans would be to see peacetime Hawai’i today—a peace won by their commitment, intelligence, and sacrifice.

“I’m just going out there to hang out with my brothers, sip a few local beers, and eat good seafood”, I told Sneed in a February phone call. “Of course I’ll bird some, but it’s not really a birding trip.” I had made plans for what I called The Brother Summit. My California brother and I would go to Honolulu in April and visit our other brother, a Hawai’i resident. “Every trip is a birding trip,” Sneed quipped. I immediately knew he was right.

**Our Special Hawai’i Correspondent, Roger Kohn, celebrates a big birding score at a viewpoint on the descent from the Koʻolau mountains.**

Although I wanted to see as many birds as possible, I faced some built-in barriers. My brothers are not birders and I would not have a car, so I would have to find creative ways to get to some good birding hotspots. One way was to book a tour with a bird guide. I knew this was my only chance to see two Oahu endemic species (found nowhere else in the world, including other Hawaiian Islands): the Oahu Amakihi and the Oahu Elepaio.

On the first morning of the trip, my guide and I ascended the Koʻolau mountains that tower above Honolulu. Our first stop? A roadside spot for seeing the Oahu Amakihi, a bright yellow honeycreeper and our first Oahu endemic target. As we searched for the Amakihi, we picked up two dove species (Spotted and Zebra, both very common), Red-vented Bulbuls, the omnipresent Red-crested Cardinals and Rose-ringed Parakeets (an invasive species considered a pest in Hawaii due to its impacts on agriculture, but I must confess, fun to see). I also saw my first Warbling White-eye of the trip, a Lifer for me. (For some fun perspective on this and other widely-introduced species, also Sneed’s Japan posts such as “Birding Japan: Tokyo, Part I” and Braden’s and Sneed’s post, “Layover Birding in Amsterdam.”)

**I saw this Warbling White-eye near the pool at my brother’s condo tower.**

After a while, the guide spotted our target bird feeding in a ginger plant at the edge of the road, and we enjoyed good looks. The Oahu Amikihi is a beautiful bird, and the first honeycreeper species I’ve ever seen. The species is designated “near threatened” in eBird, so I felt very fortunate to see it. With this success under our belts, we headed down from the mountains, pausing at a viewpoint to take in epic views of Honolulu, with its skyscrapers and Diamond Head (the volcanic feature that looms over the city), backed by the deep blue waters of the Pacific.

**I loved seeing an Oahu Amakihi, a honeycreeper found on Oahu and nowhere else.**

Our second stop was a forest trail with the goal of locating the Oahu Elepaio. This proved difficult, and at one point we had been trying for at least an hour and half without success. Finally, as we made our way back to the trailhead, the guide spotted two or three individuals in bushes near the trail! We did not have good looks at the birds, which moved rapidly and offered us only brief, very filtered views as they flitted among the bushes. This flycatcher species is not much to look at, brown on top and white-ish underneath. But this Oahu endemic is listed as “vulnerable” in eBird, and once again I was grateful for the chance to see a rare Hawai’ian species.

**A gorgeous Red-billed Leiothrix allowed me a few good looks in the Makiki Forest Recreation Area.** Even though introduced species such as this have had direct and indirect impacts on native Hawai’ian animals and ecosystems, they do offer an unusual opportunity to observe and learn birds from other parts of the world.

The next day, I got my first good looks at a Pacific Golden Plover on somebody’s front lawn. In breeding plumage, this plover species is quite striking, with a black belly and face, a thick, clean white stripe down the side of the neck, and brown, white, and shiny gold patches on the back. I would subsequently see this species all over town in any available stretch of green space, from small lawns to big city parks. Their migration to Alaska loomed, so my April visit proved ideal.

**Resplendent Pacific Golden Plovers were a common sight in any available green space in Honolulu as they prepared to migrate to Alaska.**

Fast-forward a couple of days, and I was thrilled to get a chance to score some seabird Lifers. I had a big gap in my life list, with no shearwater, tropicbird, noddy, or booby species. However, during my pre-trip study, I came across a hotspot where many of these species could potentially be seen: the Japanese Fishing Shrine, on the southeastern coast of Oahu. This hotspot is literally just a shrine on a hunk of lava rock that juts out into the sea. There is nowhere to walk, so whatever birds I would see would have to come to me. One species that I particularly wanted to find was the Red-tailed Tropicbird, an elegant white seabird with a red bill and long red tail streamers. Not long after I arrived, I got my target, as four or five Red-tailed Tropicbirds traced large circles in the sky. At first, they were pretty far away, but as time went on their flight paths kept coming closer and closer to me and I was able to see them up close and capture great photos. A Lifer, and a spectacular one at that! In between tropicbird sightings, I scanned for other species and managed to pick up a pair of Sooty Terns, another Lifer, flying low over the ocean in the distance. Rendezvousing with my brothers, we headed to Kona Brewing, where they helped me celebrate my seabird treasure with a couple of rounds of delicious seasonal beers at the bar, with sea breezes whooshing around us in a pretty marina setting.

**An elegant Red-tailed Tropicbird patrols the southeastern coast of Oahu.**

One area that piqued my interest was the wetlands near Kailua, on the southeastern coast. After a pretty, 25-minute drive on the Pali highway and a superb lunch of a grilled mahi mahi sandwich and guilt-free fries (highly recommended!), my brothers dropped me off at Kaha Park. This is the starting point for exploring the Kawainui Marsh Wildlife Sanctuary, a delightful spot graced with abundant water and velvety green mountain views. Right away, I was rewarded with up-close views of Common Gallinules, including a super cute youngster that would melt the heart of even the most jaded observer.

**A Common Gallinule chick at the Kawainui Marsh Wildlife Sanctuary. Whoose da cutest bird in the marsh?!**

As I continued walking, I got good looks at both bulbul species (Red-whiskered and Red-vented), Common Waxbills, and Northern Cardinals. In the grasses, I saw another Lifer: a Scaly-breasted Munia, a songbird with rich chestnut hues above and an attractive and well-defined scaly pattern on the belly. Another introduced species (native to India and southeast Asia), this was another Lifer for me.

**A handsome Scaly-breasted Munia in the grasses on my wetlands exploration.**

As I returned to the trailhead, someone pointed out a Black-crowned Night Heron, which I had missed as it stood as still as a statue in the water a mere 50 feet away from me. While I waited to be picked up, I scored yet another Lifer, Java Sparrows (which are actually finches, so I wonder what genius named them Sparrows?), which were foraging in a grassy field nearby. In an hour and a half, I had picked up three Lifers, which I celebrated with my brothers at Lanikai Brewing. The parking lot for the brewery faces a pretty stretch of Hamakua Marsh, where I was delighted to pick up another Lifer, Hawaiian Coot, and see Black-necked Stilts for the only time on the trip. Bonus brewery birding, woohoo!

**Finding Black-necked Stilts in Hamakua Marsh right behind Lanikai Brewing was a serendipitous event.**

Another trip highlight was finding a small flock of Yellow-fronted Canaries, a boldly patterned bright yellow finch native to Africa, in a waterfront park. I had assumed I’d have to head up into the mountains or to some specific hotspot to find this species. Yet here they were, busily calling and feeding in a park amidst the hubbub of Waikiki. I also got brief but spectacular views of a Red-billed Leiothrix in all its multicolored glory, which I had barely seen on the guided tour, in the Makiki Forest Recreation Area. Bird of the Trip honors is a tough call, but I’d say it’s a toss-up between this species and the Red-tailed Tropicbird.

**A Yellow-fronted Canary poses for me at Fort Derussy park in Waikiki.**

As of mid-May, according to eBird, 108 species have been reported in Honolulu County (encompassing the entire island of Oahu) so far this year. In a nine-day trip in which birding was only one of several priorities, I managed to see 31 species. Seventeen of those were Lifers, which far exceeded my expectations. With determination and a little help from my brothers, I had an excellent birding trip to Honolulu. Indeed, in the words of a wise blogger I know, every trip is a birding trip.

Our Bend, Oregon-based correspondent, Roger Kohn traces his birding obsession to a November 2016 Sneed visit to the Bay Area and considers Sneed his birding mentor. Though grateful for that, he sure wishes Sneed would increase his consumption and appreciation of craft beer. (Editor’s Note: I’m not sure what Roger is complaining about. I have been known to drink up to two beers a month!)

For more on birding Hawai’i, see Braden’s post “Hawai’i: The International Jungle.”

All photos copyright Roger Kohn.

Braden’s Costa Rica Report #4: Osa Peninsula Adventure

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Braden and I write FatherSonBirding in the hopes of sharing the wonders of birds and birding, and the urgency to protect them. We do not accept advertising or donations, but if you’d like to support our work, please consider buying *NEW* copies of some of Sneed’s books—First-Time Japan, for instance, or my recent Orbis Pictus Award winner, Border Crossings. We appreciate your interest and hope you will keep reading!

A low growl emanated from the dense jungle up the hillside from the highway, stopping me in my tracks. The sun hadn’t even thought about rising yet, since I’d woken up before 5 a.m., but some animals were awake, including the Crested Owl I’d just heard call from the rainforest. I laughed in disbelief as I stood on the side of the highway, looking up the hill. While I could not see the animal, Crested Owl was one of the country’s largest owl species and one I’d been hoping for but not expecting to get during my time here. And yet here one was, singing for me as I began my trek from El Chontal (my hostel) to the Río Rincon Bridge in extreme southwestern Costa Rica.

The walk from the hostel to the bridge was about an hour, and as I plodded along the highway, I could hear and feel the forest waking up. Little Tinamous and Great Curassows called in the dark, and about half an hour before dawn many other species of birds started up. Immense roars echoed from high in trees as male Mantled Howler Monkeys welcomed the sun into the sky, and I eventually arrived at my destination, the bridge spanning the Río Rincón. Nearly every birder visiting the Osa Peninsula stopped here, albeit usually with a vehicle and not on foot. The bridge offered great views of mangroves to the east and rainforest to the west, as well as a wide open vista from which to watch parrots of many species leave their roosts in search of food. The primary reason birders stopped here, however, was for a specific, critically-endangered bird species: the Yellow-billed Cotinga.

**My early morning walk rewarded me with multiple looks at Yellow-billed Cotingas, rare and beautiful birds endemic to southwest Costa Rica.**

Cotingas are a strange, remarkable and hilarious group of birds. These plump birds feed primarily on fruit and come in a wide variety of shapes and colors, including tangerine orange, like the Andean Cock-of-the-rock, shadow black, like the Bare-necked Umbrellabird, or electric blue, like the Turquoise Cotinga. The family features some of the world’s weirdest species, like the monk-like Capuchinbird, and the loudest birds in the world, the bellbirds, one of which resides in Costa Rica (and will be my target for my final weekend trip in this country, so stay tuned!).

Yellow-billed Cotingas are angelic white, and are endemic to southwestern Costa Rica and extreme western Panama. They live in extensive lowland rainforest and mangroves, and thanks to habitat decimation, are largely restricted to the Osa Peninsula, one of the country’s wildest remaining areas. This species was one of the primary reasons that I had requested to skip classes this week and visit this far-away peninsula, and the Río Rincón Bridge was the most reliable place to see them.

By the time I arrived, barely before dawn, the birds were already active. Hordes of parrots, from the pint-sized Orange-chinned Parakeets to the chunky Red-lored Parrots to the spectacular Scarlet Macaws, flew over me towards distant locations. A Bare-throated Tiger-Heron hunted for fish in the river, and another one, a juvenile covered in its namesake black and orange stripes, watched from a nearby tree. The sandy river island hosted several Spotted Sandpipers, a Willet and a Northern Jacana—the first I’d ever seen. Jacanas have massive feet which they use to walk atop lily pads, although there weren’t any lily pads in sight here. Flocks of swallows and swifts wheeled overhead, and I spotted a few Fiery-billed Aracaris swooping across the river, their flame-colored bills shining in the sun.

**Even though I’d already seen them on the trip, I had yet to grow bored seeing a Bare-throated Tiger-Heron.**

As I stood on the bridge, unsure of where to look for the cotingas, I heard a distinctive song from a nearby tree. The “bouncing-ball” call sounded exactly like a Wrentit, a bird native to the chaparral of California, which had never been recorded in Costa Rica and probably never will be. I knew exactly what it was, though, since I’d studied the song the night before and noticed the resemblance it had to a Wrentit. I walked over to the tree and whipped out my speaker, playing the call right back at the bird. Then, a large, blue and red bird flew in and landed several dozen feet above my head in clear view: Baird’s Trogon. This had also been one of my chief targets on the Osa, given that it was difficult to find nearly anywhere else in the country, and I snapped some poor photos of it before returning to my cotinga watch. After about fifteen minutes, that watch paid off, as a mottled gray female cotinga flew over, landing briefly in a tree in front of me before disappearing in the foliage. “Well, that wasn’t the view I’d hoped for,” I said to myself, a bit disappointed but still relieved that I’d seen my target species. The cotingas weren’t done yet, though. Over the next hour and a half, I spotted seven more of the birds flying over, many of them strikingly-white males. I got a decent picture of one in flight, too.

**Despite the poor photo, Baird’s Trogon was one of the chief targets of my Osa Peninsula trip—and at least the sixth species of trogon I’d seen in Costa Rica!**

After two hours of great birding, I walked back along the highway to my hostel. From there, I packed up and caught the bus down to Puerto Jiménez, the largest city on the Osa (which is still quite small). I found a small soda (the name for any number of small, family-owned restaurants in Costa Rica) and waited there for about an hour before a tiny, run-down van pulled up in front of it at 11. “Dos Brazos?” asked the lady driving it, and I nodded, throwing my bag in the van and climbing up after it. The interior of the van was in rough shape, although the seats were comfortable, and I taught the lady’s young son how to use my binoculars as we rattled up dirt roads towards the “town” of Dos Brazos, hidden deep in the rainforest.

**Riverside Wren—Costa Rica’s Most Stylish Wren???**

The woman let me off in front of the reception house for the Bolita Rainforest Hostel, where an American greeted me. “Welcome to Bolita! The hostel is a 30-minute hike that way,” she pointed up into the jungle. So, I set off, my heavy pack on my back. I spotted a pair of Buff-rumped Warblers next to a creek I had to cross, and eventually arrived at the open-air hostel, caked in sweat. Another American and several volunteers from all over the world greeted me cheerfully, showing me to my “room”, an outdoor bed with a mosquito net over it. There was no “inside” at Bolita, except maybe the supply closet, which hosted half a dozen roosting bats on its walls. After I settled down, Pascal, an older French volunteer, noticed my binoculars.

**I wonder how many Hilton Honors points I’ll get for my stay at the Bolita Rainforest Hostel—a place with superb “air-conditioning!”**

“Are you a birdwatcher?”

I nodded, and she proceeded to pull out a faded “Birds of Costa Rica” book, flipping it open to a page with small, colorful birds on it. She pointed to the bird that just so happened to be my number one remaining target for the entire trip: Orange-collared Manakin.

“I saw these guys here! The males all dance for the females at places called leks, and I found a lek on one of the hostel trails. I can show you if you’d like!”I nodded profusely—fate had somehow delivered to me the perfect opportunity to see the bird I wanted to see most here. Soon, Pascal led me and a few other interested guests up the “Big Banana Trail.” After twenty minutes of hiking, we rounded a corner and heard claps from the nearby trees. Pascal waded a few feet into the foliage off the trail, and pointed. There they were, tiny, football-shaped birds with sunset-colored collars and tiny black caps, like the White-collared Manakins I’d seen in Sarapiqui but with fiery rather than white throats. We enjoyed them for fifteen or minutes or so before everyone else wandered back down towards the hostel. I decided to poke around the trails a bit longer—and I’m glad I did.

**Once I arrived at the hostel, and thanks to a new friend, it took me only minutes to find my last remaining Osa Peninsula target bird, Orange-collared Manakin.**

Almost immediately, I heard the loud, repeating call of a wren coming from a tangle near me, and with a little verbal coercion, I was able to spot the culprit: a Black-bellied Wren, another southwestern Costa Rica specialty bird. This wren happened to be the beginning of a large mixed flock and I spotted several more wrens as well as antshrikes, antwrens, a foliage-gleaner, and a Little Tinamou, a hard-to-see forest bird, feeding right on the trail in front of me. I stopped at one lookout and watched as the birds came to me: parrots, flycatchers, hummingbirds and more. Highlights included a female Thick-billed Seed-finch, a tiny bird with a massive bill; an Olive-sided Flycatcher, a bird that winters in South America and summers in the boreal forest of Montana and Maine; and a Purple-crowned Fairy, a flashy, usually-arboreal hummingbird that steals nectar from flowers rather than pollinating them. Extremely satisfied with this mid-day birding, I headed back to the hostel to watch the sunset.

**Scarlet Macaws are one of the birds most people want to see in Costa Rica, and in the Osa Peninsula, I found no shortage of these spectacular creatures.**

I found a nice little bench overlooking much of the rainforest and quickly realized that even the hostel had great bird activity. Piratic Flycatchers, Scarlet-rumped Tanagers and Bananaquits flew around me, and about an hour before dusk, I spotted another bird that blew me away: another cotinga, this one the color of the sky. I’d looked for Turquoise Cotingas three days earlier and completely missed them, and yet here they were, delivered right to my doorstep in all their blue and violet glory. I had gotten, quite simply, every bird I’d wanted to see on the Osa Peninsula. And I still had one morning left!

**One of the trails I explored near the Bolita Rainforest Hostel.**

That morning was spent exploring more of the trails behind the Bolita Rainforest Hostel. With no real targets, I just set off into the jungle, hoping to discover something unexpected, and I did! I spotted three more lifers, including Black-crowned Tityra, Black-cheeked Ant-tanager (the only species completely endemic to the Osa Peninsula) and a Northern Black-throated Trogon, which was one of four trogon species I reported on my hike. I heard dozens of antbirds, antwrens, antshrikes and antthrushes, spotted groups of Scarlet Macaws flying high above me, and watched the sunrise over the misty hills stretching all the way out to the Pacific Ocean. I’d seen some beautiful places in Costa Rica so far, but none had been so wild as here. From one vantage point, I could see no signs of human habitation—just forest and sea. Even for a country that has done so well protecting its environment, places like this are rare, and I’m so happy I got to experience it.

**A lone Scarlet Macaw flies across the dawn sky—my last morning in the Osa Peninsula, and one I’ll never forget.**

You can experience it too! Whether you want to see the jungles of Central America, like me, or the snow-capped peaks of the Alps or the Andes, the castles of Europe, the hubbub of Tokyo or the grasslands of the Serengeti, you can, with the help of the Gilman Scholarship! I’m sure I sound like a broken record, but it’s because it’s true—the Gilman can help low-income college students reach far away destinations to study abroad with just a simple application! I urge you to apply today, so you can have a life-changing, international experience during your college years, like me!

Birding Barcelona, Part 2: In Search of the Greater Flamingo

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When birding big cities I’ve discovered that it often requires a bit of extra effort to reach even a highly modified natural area. That proved true last year when my daughter and I visited Japan (see “Birding Japan: Kanazawa”), and it once again proved to be the case when my wife and I recently visited Barcelona. After birding city parks and tourist sites all week, I had barely breached 30 bird species total—far short of my goal of 50 or 60 species (see “Birding Barcelona, Part 1: The Urban Core”). I had a plan to help rectify the situation—but it was going to take that extra bit of effort to realize it.

On the last full day of our trip, I rose early, wolfed down some yoghurt, and hailed a cab in front of our hotel. In my mediocre Spanish, I explained to Isabella, my driver, where I wanted to go and even showed her the place on Google Maps. She knew about the area and had even been there, so we set out toward the airport in a light drizzle.

When visiting Barcelona, the best chance for a birder to enjoy some natural habitat—and an abundance of birds—is to take a taxi out to the Espais Naturals del Delta del Llobregat near the Barcelona Airport.

My destination was the “Espais Naturals del Delta del Llobregat,” which I’ll just call “Llobregat” for simplicity. Llobregat was a wetland divided into two parts, one on either side of the Barcelona airport, and the reason it existed at all was no doubt due to the fact that you can’t build huge buildings where giant aircraft can run into them. I thank the travel gods for that because these wetlands were the only orange-colored (high species count) hotspots anywhere near the city of Barcelona.

I asked Isabella to drop me off at the area on the far (western) side of the airport, and twenty minutes later found myself standing utterly alone on a road that appeared to lead into the natural area. Turns out, Isabella could have driven me another mile closer to the main action, but that error turned out to be a good thing. As I walked down the road, I began hearing all kinds of bird vocalizations and soon Merlin’s Sound ID picked up a new lifer for me, Cetti’s Warbler, calling from the thick reeds on both sides of the road. Sound ID also picked up Green Sandpiper, which got me really excited because shorebirds were at the top of my list to see on this, my sole real birding outing, of the trip. As I walked, I also saw what would be my only raptors of the trip—three Western Marsh-Harriers—and some high-flying swallow-type birds that turned out to be Eurasian Crag-Martins. I got occasional glimpses at a canal to my left, but saw only Mallards, a pair of Gadwalls, and a Gray Heron in it.

Half an hour later, I arrived at Llobregat’s official entrance and was relieved to see a series of established trails that led to various bird blinds around the reserve. As I followed the first trail, Common Chiffchaffs, Black Redstarts, European Robins, European Serins, and White Wagtails hopped and fluttered around me, but my excitement didn’t spike until I entered the first birding blind.

**I had worried that I might miss Greater Flamingos in Spain, but a couple of dozen greeted me at Llobregat. Note how pale they are. Evidently, they are not getting enough crustaceans in their diets!**

It took me about five seconds to locate the birds I most wanted to see—Greater Flamingos. But they just formed the tasty appetizer to the huge variety of waterfowl before me. This included many familiar ducks familiar from back home: Northern Shovelers, Gadwalls, Mallards, and the Eurasian variety of Green-winged Teal (which may eventually get split into a new species).

I just love the unique looks of Eurasia’s Green-winged Teals, which have a distinctively different appearance than our North American versions. I hope the taxonomic splitters pounce on them and declare them a distinct species.

The ducks that really got me going, though, were new for my life list: Common Shelducks and a pair of Red-crested Pochards that was doing its best to avoid eye contact on a distant island! I had hoped to see both of these, but had tempered my expectations. No worries—there they were, and in company of a lone Eurasian Wigeon.

Ka-ching! **Life Bird #1007!** **Common Shelduck in the company of a pretty fetching Mallard!**

As I sat enjoying the duck show, I also noted Eurasian Coots and Moorhens, along with a delightful pair of Little Grebes, all of which I had seen in Japan almost a year earlier. As I scanned the pond, I also saw something quickly dive into the reeds at the edge of the pond. I strongly suspect that this was a Water Rail, but reacted just a moment too slow to get my binoculars on it.

If you look at this photo carefully, you will see a number of charismatic Spanish species: Graylag Goose, Eurasian Wigeon, and my lifer Red-crested Pochards. The latter two are reported infrequently this time of year.

After about thirty minutes, I continued onto another viewing area. On the way, I passed a plywood wall with a few viewing windows cut into it and happened to take a quick peek. A largish purplish bird stuck out and my first thought was “Eurasian Moorhen.” Then, I did a double-take. “Hold on. Moorhens aren’t that blue—nor do they have bright red bills and legs!” The bird before me was one I had been studying on eBird quizzes, but darned if I could remember the name of it. Scrolling through eBird, I quickly found it: Western Swamphen! Even better, it had two adorable fuzzy black chicks with it!

I had not expected to see such a bird in my wildest dreams and it didn’t stay visible for long—just long enough for me to take a couple of modest photos—before disappearing into the reeds. And that, apparently, is typical for this bird, a species that rarely makes an appearance even where it might be fairly common. It immediately leaped to the top of my Trip Bird list, where it would remain for the rest of our vacation and beyond.

**Earning Bird of the Trip honors, this rare sighting of a Western Swamphen put a lasting grin on my face. That black “shadow” to its left is actually one of two chicks accompanying it.**

After more bird blind fun, I walked out to the beach in the hopes of seeing shorebirds. No dice. In fact, I didn’t see a single shorebird my entire morning, one of the trip’s big disappointments. I asked the interpreter about it and he confirmed that there hadn’t been many shorebirds around the entire year. Alas, I later discovered that the other section of the wetlands, on the east side of the airport, had been getting some. Nonetheless, I sat down on a jetty, breathed in the salt air of the Mediterranean, and enjoyed some bread and cheese while watching the giant jets taking off to almost every continent in the world. Then, I began making my way back down the long access road, happy with the day despite the shorebird miss.

My morning at Llobregat nabbed me 33 species—as many as I’d seen in the previous five days in Barcelona. It pushed my world life list to 1011 species. It also pushed my trip list to 49 species—one short of my goal of 50 species. “Shoot,” I thought, riding a taxi back downtown. “Where can I go near our hotel to pick up one more species?” I hadn’t a clue, and quietly resigned myself to this epic failure that would mar my reputation and confidence the rest of my life and cast shame upon my friends and family.

**More Flamingo fun. These birds sat atop my list of birds I wanted to see in Barcelona and at Llobregat, they did not disappoint.**

That evening, Amy—who had spent the day shopping and visiting the Picasso Museum—and I decided to take a walk before our last Barcelona supper. She hadn’t yet visited Parc de la Ciutadella (see my previous post “Birding Barcelona, Part 1: The Urban Core”), so we strolled over there. We reached the pond where they rented rowboats and decided to go for it. I handed over six Euros and we climbed in, joining a huge assortment of merry locals and tourists. Black-headed and Yellow-legged Gulls, Graylag Geese, Gray Herons, and Mallards surrounded us. Monk and Rose-ringed Parakeets squawked overhead. I smiled. This was a perfect way to wrap up the trip.

Then, I spotted a small bird sally out from the edge of the pond and return to land on a rock. From similar sightings in Taiwan, Israel, and Japan, I knew immediately what it was. “Gray Wagtail!” I exclaimed! Just as in Japan, it was the only GRWA I had seen, and it pushed my trip list to 50 species.

I swear, you can’t make this guano up.

**Ciutadella’s popular rowing pond—and site of the trip’s sole Gray Wagtail.**

Braden’s Costa Rica Report #2: Of Stingrays and Macaws

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I stood on the wooden platform a hundred feet above the forest floor, staring down the long metal cable leading off into the foliage. The ziplining guide unhooked the carabiner on my belt from one line and attached it to another, then banged on the cable with a wooden bat—a signal to whoever was on the other end that I was ready to go. A colorful iguana watched from a nearby tree as I leaned back, grabbed the cable with my leather gloves, and jumped into the air. Humid, tropical wind hit me as I zipped past epiphyte-covered trees, and I heard the calls of parrots flying over. Thirty seconds later, I landed on the next platform, where the guide unclipped my carabiner and clipped it to another cable for another thrilling ride. An hour and fourteen platforms later, I touched down on the ground and joined the rest of the USAC students in gushing about how awesome ziplining had been—just the beginning to an exhilarating, chaotic weekend on the Pacific coast of Costa Rica.

**I’m going to get the, ahem, hang of this eventually!**

After lunch, our program directors took us to the coastal tourist town of Jaco. Some people split off to take a paid surfing lesson, but I opted to stay on the main beach and enjoy the waves. As my friends and I waded into the warm, salty water, we discovered that we were not alone. As we swam in the surf, something soft and slimy suddenly collided with my leg.

“Ack!” I cried, jumping backwards. Everyone around me stared. “What?”

A pair of fins appeared in the water to our left. Sharks! my mind shouted, but a sudden rolling wave gave us a glance at their true identities—stingrays! And the Pacific Cownose Rays (according to our limited research on Google) were not strong swimmers. Every time a more powerful wave rolled in, it carried the animals straight into us. Thankfully, none of the human—stingray collisions ended in harm to either party, but feeling a large, slimy animal run into me was not something I got used to.

**The beach at Jaco—a favorite for tourists and stingrays!**

We retired from the beach to the hostel where we would be staying for the night, a mere hundred meters from the ocean. As the sun set, however, our activities continued. At around 5, two of my friends and I went on a probably ill-advised walk through the town of Jaco in search of owls. We ended up on a long dirt road leading towards the jungle. Before we got there, brooding clouds materialized above us, and a downpour soaked our clothes. We didn’t see any owls (or at least not well), but we did spot a few other night birds, including Lesser Nighthawks and Common Pauraques. Upon our soggy return to Jaco, we stopped briefly on a bridge crossing a small stream in town. There, in the dark, moonlit water, stood a tall, powerful-looking heron, staring straight down into the current. We watched from the bridge as the Bare-throated Tiger-Heron crept closer and closer to its desired target. After five minutes of holding our breaths, the heron plunged its neck into water, pulling out a fish and swallowing it whole!

That night, our entire cohort of students went out for drinks in downtown Jaco (the legal drinking age in Costa Rica is 18). Some of us grew restless sitting in the bars, however, and made our way back to the beach to watch the ocean pound relentlessly into the dark sand. Near our hostel, a river mouth emptied into the ocean, running in all directions to create a maze of shallow streams and sandbars. And there, under the moon, we spotted more herons, fishing in the dark. Another tiger-heron strutted on the shore. Two Yellow-crowned Night-herons fought over a frog dinner. But the coolest animal we saw was a bird straight out of a horror movie—the uncommon and elusive Boat-billed Heron (I didn’t take a picture because it was so dark but you should definitely look this thing up). There on the sand it stood, with large, dark, soulless eyes complementing its wild, black hairdo. Its bill looked more like a shovel than a boat, and we watched as it rushed into the water, chasing after a fish.

The next morning, Kiley, Leah and I caught an Uber to Playa Hermosa (“Beautiful Beach”—one of several Playa Hermosas scattered around the country) south of Jaco. Silvery streaks of sand ran across the less-touristed coastline, but the biggest prize had little to do with the ocean. Planted along the edge of the sand stood large trees of many species, including palms and almonds. Feeding on those almonds were giant, long-tailed Scarlet Macaws! The macaws flew over us in groups of two to four, calling abrasively and flashing the streaks of blue and yellow that decorated their otherwise crimson bodies. At one point, one landed no more than ten feet away, and we watched and filmed it in awe. Scarlet Macaws are a threatened species because of the illegal pet trade and habitat loss, but their story in Costa Rica is one of success. After declining significantly in the 1900s, Scarlet Macaws are increasing in numbers on both the Pacific and Caribbean coasts of the country, thanks to conservation work. They are now once again a common sight in much of Costa Rica.

**Scarlet Macaws feeding in trees along the beach. Their beaks are especially designed to crush the largest, hardest nuts!**

The next morning, our last of the weekend, eight of us caught an early-morning bus north to Carara National Park, one of the last tracts of pristine Pacific lowland rainforest in the country. Once we bought our tickets and entered the park (if you go, make SURE to buy tickets online in advance—it was a hassle doing it there), we followed a trail deep into the forest, marveling at the height and circumference of the smooth-barked trees rising before us. Many of the trees had thick buttresses stretching out from their bases. Here, the deeper soils held little nutrients, so tree roots stretched out rather than down. Leaf-cutter ant trails crossed the trail every couple hundred meters, and we thanked a guide who pointed out a White-lined Bat roosting on the side of a tree.

**One of several troops of leaf-cutter ants we enjoyed watching.**

White-faced Capuchins preening during siesta time.

Loafing on a log laid across a bubbling river we spotted not one but two Brown Basilisks or Jesus Christ Lizards, that special reptile with the ability to run on water. White-faced Capuchins stared down at us from trees as they picked through each other’s fur, and we startled a White-nosed Coati from the trail, where it had been quietly gobbling down ants. We got great views of Slaty-tailed Trogons—big, red-bellied birds that look kind of like frogs—and a Yellow-throated Toucan that flew in as we watched yet more Scarlet Macaws. My personal bird of the day was a Black-faced Antthrush, a small, quiet songbird poking through the leaf litter about fifty meters away from the trail. This lowland rainforest (which was the final of the three prominent forest types in the country for me to visit) held many species from the tropical dry forest, too, as Carara National Park sits near the zone where the two habitats blend together. To see true, pure lowland tropical rainforest, however, we’ll have to visit the Osa Peninsula or Manuel Antonio National Park, quite a bit farther south.

My favorite bird of the weekend, a Black-faced Antthrush.

Stay tuned!

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.