Tag Archives: Glacier National Park

Birding Glacier National Park in the Hot Dry Fall of 2025

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Not quite two years ago, I posted “Birding Glacier National Park in the Long Hot Winter of 2024.” The blog resulted from an invitation I received to speak to school kids in Browning, Montana, and I took the opportunity for some rare winter birding at my favorite park. The post has received a lot of views, either because people love Glacier or they are interested in the impacts of climate change or both. A couple of weeks ago, I was fortunate enough to be invited back to Browning. This time, I came a day early and my hosts were gracious enough to provide me with a place to stay for the extra night. My last post narrated my drive up, especially the devastating state of the drought along the Rocky Mountain Front. With my extra day to bird, though, I planned to return to Glacier and I wondered, “Would the park be as hot and dry as before?”

My destination for the day was the road (not THIS one, fortunately) leading past iconic Chief Mountain to the US-Canada border.

I woke in my East Glacier lodging well before dawn and about seven a.m. set off for my first destination, the Chief Mountain road that leads up to Waterton Lakes in Canada. As I drove toward Browning before turning north, a spectacular orange fireball rose on the eastern horizon. I’ve seen lots of sunrises in my life, but nothing matches a sunrise over the northern Great Plains. As a bonus, a red fox and young bull moose greeted me from the side of the road!

My route took me to Saint Mary and up past the one-bar town of Babb before I turned left toward Canada at about 8:30. I sadly didn’t plan to visit our northern neighbor. Today, much as I had on my last visit here, I had a particular quarry in mind: Boreal Chickadees.

As their name implies, Boreal Chickadees live mainly in northern spruce & fir forests and as such, their range barely dips into the US in a few places along our northern border. Lucky for Braden and me, Montana happens to be one of those places. We had found our first BOCHs almost by accident during covid, when Glacier had been closed and we decided to try our luck along the Chief Mountain road. To our delight, we found the little birds. Stunningly cute, their brown heads and other features closely ally them with both the Chestnut-backed and Gray-headed Chickadees, the latter now thought to be extinct in Alaska, their only known home in the US. In any case, on my visit to Browning two years ago, I had relocated BOCHs on the Chief Mountain Road, and it was my aim to do so again today.

For my first try, I stopped at the pull-out right next to the Glacier National Park sign. I walked the road for a few minutes and managed to grab the attention of three Red-breasted Nuthatches while Sound ID picked up the calls of Golden-crowned Kinglets (which due to my ears, I have never been able to hear), but no chickadees.

I repeated this routine five more times along the road between the Glacier NP sign and the Canadian border. I got really excited at one point when I saw a flurry of bird activity from my car. I leaped out, binoculars and camera in hand, and saw robins, more nuthatches, and a Hairy Woodpecker. A foursome of Canada Jays, perhaps the most refined members of the corvid family, swung by to check me out. No chickadees.

As my prospects for finding Boreal Chickadees dimmed, I focused on enjoying another of my favorite birds, Canada Jays—though why Canada gets to claim these gorgeous critters remains a mystery!

As I searched, I especially looked for densely-packed spruce trees along the road, but I realized that lodgepole pine actually dominated many areas. “Hm. Maybe this isn’t a preferred location after all,” I thought. “Maybe we just got lucky the past couple of visits.”

I had started to get that “I guess I’m not going to find them” feeling when I noticed a little area that seemed to have more spruce. There was no pull-out here so I just parked as far off the road as I could and walked back to where a brushy meadow pushed westward into the forest. The meadow was lined with more spruce than anything else, and as if to lure me in, two more Canada Jays landed to be admired. “Might as well give this a try,” I thought.

This meadow intrusion into the woods seemed like my last best chance to find Boreal Chickadees on this unseasonably warm fall day.

I followed what appeared to be an overgrown path through waist-high shrubs. It occured to me that if berries grew nearby this would be an ideal place to get ambushed by a grizzly bear, but I cautiously pressed forward. My hopes shot up when two small birds rose out of the brush and landed in a tree. I got only a brief glimpse and still have no idea what they were, though I’m guessing some kind of sparrow.

I was approaching the end of the meadow when I saw more birds flitting around up ahead. I spotted another Red-breasted Nuthatch and Sound ID picked up White-crowned Sparrows, Golden-crowned Kinglets, and Dark-eyed Juncos. Then, suddenly, I heard chickadees—and they definitely were not Black-cappeds!

Within moments several tiny birds landed in the trees before me. It took a few tries to get eyes on one and to my joy, it was a Boreal! There were four of them altogether and wow, did they have a lot of energy! Not only were they checking me out, they were checking out every other bird, too—including a Ruby-crowned Kinglet keeping company. I managed a couple of good photos. Then, within minutes, all the birds departed—even the White-crowned Sparrows with their loud contact calls. Smiling, I traipsed back to the car. The sun had a special warmth to it and Chief Mountain rising above the forest added magic to the moment. Little did I know, however, that this wouldn’t be my last “moment” of the day.

While most visitors to Glacier focus on seeing grizzlies and mountain goats, nothing says wilderness to me more than Boreal Chickadees.

The glow of seeing Boreal Chickadees still with me, I made my way back to Babb and turned right, up the road to the Many Glacier Valley. A large flashing sign warned that there was no general admission parking there, but I love this drive and decided to go as far as I could. I passed through groves of aspen glowing gold with fall foliage and relished the views of Mt. Wilbur and other familiar peaks ahead.

At the Lake Sherburne dam, I stopped and got out for a look at the reservoir. In keeping with my observations from my last post, it was as low as I’d ever seen it, a giant “bathtub ring” leading from the forest edge down to what water remained. I’d also noticed that Swiftcurrent Creek was incredibly low—mere rivulets flowing between a pavement of exposed rocks.

Lake Sherburne—a reservoir, actually—stood as low as I’d ever seen it, additional evidence of the long-term drought impacting this part of the world.

I still had plenty of time and wanted to do some kind of hike in the park, so I returned to St. Mary and found myself on a little trail for the Beaver Pond Loop. In all my visits to Glacier, I’d never before done any hiking or walking near St. Mary so I set out on this path with some excitement. It wasn’t the most dramatic hike, hugging the south side of St. Mary Lake, but it offered terrific views up the valley and the blue sky and warm (too warm) conditions made for pleasant hiking.

I’d walked maybe a quarter mile when I rounded a bend to see a dark object ahead next to the trail. At first I thought it might be a hare or other mammal. When I raised my binoculars, I realized with astonishment that it was a grouse. Not only that, I felt pretty sure it was a Spruce Grouse!

My accidental Spruce Grouse sighting was evidence that I had put in enough time searching for these guys to break my “grouse curse.” Notably, the grouse brought my year species total to 527 birds—exactly tied with my previous record. Which bird will put me over the top? Stay tuned to FSB to find out!

If you’ve followed FatherSonBirding, you’ll know that I’ve seen SPGR only twice (see posts “Gambling on a Grouse-fecta” and “August: It’s Just Weird”), and had gone to great effort to do so. To have one just show up unexpectedly, well, that pretty much blew my mind. Still, I didn’t feel 100% sure on the ID, so I snapped some quick photos to send to Braden. Then, the grouse started walking toward me. “Whaaaaat?” I wondered.

That’s when I realized that another hiker stood on the other side of the bird and had herded it my way. Finally, the grouse wandered off into the forest, leaving me both astonished and gratified. I guess I had put in enough grouse effort to finally be rewarded by such encounters!

I continued onto a nice rocky beach on St. Mary Lake and found a perfect rock for sitting. Two pairs of Horned Grebes played and fished out on the water—my best look at this species all year—and I relished a few moments in one of earth’s most spectacular places.

Two pairs of Horned Grebes kept me company as I took a few moments to soak up the beauty of Glacier National Park before heading to my week of work in Browning.

Glacier, though, doesn’t exist by accident. It’s here because forward-thinking people planned for the future long ago. As the epically dry conditions of this part of the world attest, we need to keep thinking forward if we want our children and their descendants to have such places to cherish. As I said in my last post, all of us need to fight the disinformation and greed of climate deniers however we can. Whether that’s by making a donation to an environmental or legal group battling the horrible policies of the current administration or making changes to lower your own carbon footprints, every effort matters. Now, more than ever, is the time.

Birding Victoria, BC

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For my birthday, my wife Amy surprised me with a week-long trip to Vancouver Island, including a three-night stay in Victoria and three more nights at a little cabin overlooking the majestic Pacific Ocean and the Olympic Peninsula across the Salish Sea (or Strait of Juan de Fuca). Amy’s surprising plans delighted me, especially since this was where we honeymooned a couple of decades before, and we’d always wanted to return. I was puzzled, however, when she said, “It’s supposed to be a good place to go birding.” What? Birding? On Vancouver Island? In January? After doing a little research on eBird, however, I concluded that she might just be right. For winter, the area seemed to have a good variety of songbirds, but I got even more excited about the possibility of ocean birds.

While at McMicking Point, this American Crow kindly kept a close watch on my backpack—I’m sure with purely altruistic motives!

Our first morning there, I awoke before dawn, walked to a nearby convenience store to grab nourishment, and then drove our rental car out to McMicking Point just as light seeped across the sky. I was super excited about this spot because someone had reported sixty species there only days before, including several birds that would be lifers pour moi. I had even dragged my large, awkward spotting scope and tripod out from Montana specifically for such opportunities. Alas, I later learned that the “mega lists” I had found on eBird had been compiled by one of the region’s top birders—a guy who apparently could ID a bird miles away just by the way it flew. My experience would prove far different.

Though the bird action seemed at first a bit slow, McMicking Point offered the most scenic vistas you could imagine.

As I set up my scope, my first thought was, “Where are all the birds?” A couple of cormorants—too far away to identify—skimmed the water, along with a few Glaucous-winged Gulls, and I could hear a raven in the neighborhood behind me, but that was it. In such situations, I have learned that it’s important to calm down and be patient—something I am horrible at (just ask Amy), but nonetheless have learned to do. Sure enough, as I trained the scope on some nearby surge channels, I spotted a few Buffleheads and then, to my delight, the trip’s first Harlequin Ducks! In Montana, we have only a narrow window to find HADUs as they breed mainly in a handful of whitewater streams in Glacier and Yellowstone (see our post “In Glacier National Park, When It Rains, It Pours—Animals.”). Because of this, I took extra time to enjoy them.

This trip could be dubbed the “Harlequin Duck Adventure” as I would see far more HADUs this week than in the entire rest of my life!

Through my brand new binoculars (more about these in the next post), I also could see interesting action stirring out on the Trial Islands about a quarter mile offshore. I trained my scope out there and immediately picked up Black Turnstones, Black Oystercatchers, and Dunlins working the rocky shore. Then, I got even more excited as I noted several larger, pale, medium-sized shorebirds. Yay! Black-bellied Plovers! This especially reinforced the value of preparing for any birding trip—especially with birds that are far away. The Dunlins, for instance, would have been more difficult for me to pin down if I had not learned that they were the most likely small shorebirds in the area this time of year. I also had noted Black-bellied Plovers on recent eBird lists for the site, and so was primed to recognize them.

I almost always undercount shorebirds. When I first trained the scope on the Trial Islands, I counted about six Black-bellied Plovers. When they flew, the number exploded to forty! Once again, the black armpits in flight give these away (see our post “Chasing Migrants, Part I: Swifts, Peeps, and Plovers”). For bonus points, can you ID the flying birds on the far left?

After picking up a few more species, I departed McMicking Point with, I should emphasize, a grand total of sixteen species—not the sixty-plus I had been dreaming about. Still, my next stop, Clover Point, would add a few more good ones for the day. Unlike McMicking Point, where I birded alone, Clover Point was well-trodden by walkers, dog owners and, it turns out, a few other birders. Here, I got closer looks at Dunlins, Harlequin Ducks, and oystercatchers, but also picked up both Red-necked and Horned Grebes and Surf Scoters. A friendly birder named John also joined me and pointed out a group of White-winged Scoters in the distance along with what he said was a Red-throated Loon, which Braden and I had seen recently on Cape Cod (see our post “Birding Race Point: Cape Cod’s Pelagic Playground“). I couldn’t convince myself of that ID, but we did spot a Pigeon Guillemot about a quarter mile distant.

Clover Point offered a great chance to watch Dunlins probe the rocky shore for invertebrate morsels.

“Is there anything special you’re looking for?” John asked me.

“I’d love to find some murrelets,” I told him with a sigh.

“Oh, we should be able to find you more alcids,” he told me, scanning the water with his binoculars. Alas, our efforts proved to no avail, and I admit that I wrapped up the morning feeling a bit of a failure. In fact, I mentioned to John the list with sixty birds on it, and he said, “Oh, that birder is a local legend. You look at his lists and you think he’s just making it up, but I’ve birded with him, and he’s the real deal. He can recognize almost anything.”

Love, love, love Black Oystercatchers. Can’t get enough—even though I got to hang out with a couple of dozen on the trip!

That did make me feel better, but even if I had not learned this, it’s important not to fall into the “failure trap.” After all, you can only see what you can see—and the whole point is to enjoy every bird you are lucky enough to encounter. Also, I reminded myself, my Victoria birding was far from over. I brought Amy back to Clover Point the next day, and while she walked along the cliffs, I enjoyed another nice session, including my only encounter with Surfbirds the entire week. These are some of Braden’s and my favorite rocky shore birds, and it was awesome to watch them foraging along with a larger group of Black Turnstones.

Watching Surfbirds (right) foraging with Black Turnstones (left) was one of the highlights of my second visit to Clover Point.

That afternoon, while Amy rested at the hotel, I decided to make the most of the season’s abbreviated daylight hours and take a stroll through Beacon Hill Park, a large park stretching almost from downtown out toward the sea near Clover Point. I intentionally left my camera in the room so I could just appreciate whatever I happened to see—which turned out to be a lot. On the grass right outside of our hotel, I was astonished to see a dozen Yellow-rumped Warblers—birds that I figured ought to be wintering much farther south (Sibley, though, shows them as all-year-round here after all). Once I reached Beacon Park, I began seeing Pine Siskins, Chestnut-backed Chickadees, Red-breasted Nuthatches, and a bird that, because of my crummy ears, always proves a challenge: Golden-crowned Kinglet.

Beacon Hill offered my best experience with land birds of the trip—including a bona fide Victoria vagrant, a Green-tailed Towhee!

After strolling for about half an hour, I stood watching a Ruby-crowned Kinglet flycatching, something I had never seen one do, when another birder approached. In a wonderfully British accent, he asked, “Do you know that within a quarter-mile of here is a great rarity?” I knew immediately what he was talking about. From looking at eBird lists, I had learned that a vagrant Green-tailed Towhee had showed up in Victoria and had set off a frenzy in the local birding community. John at Clover Point had also mentioned it, but I hadn’t realized I had wandered so close.

Victoria birders enthralled with a “rare” Green-tailed Towhee!

“I tried to see it,” my newest birding friend confided, “but you know what I heard—‘Oh, you should have been here five minutes ago.’” Nonetheless, he gave me directions in case I wanted to check it out, and with an hour or so of daylight left, I figured I might as well. I crossed the road and followed a little path up and over a hill until I came to a tall flagpole flying the maple leaf. Sure enough, in the field below, a group of four or five birders had gathered around a small thicket. I quietly approached from behind and spotted movement in a darkened space between two bushes. After a few moments, the familiar shape of the Green-tailed Towhee took the stage.

Although fairly common in Montana in summer, the Green-tailed Towhee that showed up in Victoria recently rocked local birders’ worlds! Full-disclosure: this is not THAT bird, but one I photographed in Bear Canyon several years ago.

It was weird seeing a bird that is relatively common in Montana being such a focus of attention here in Canada, but it was cool, too. It helped me appreciate the enthusiasm of birders no matter where you go in this amazing world. What’s funny, though, is that I got much more excited by the Fox Sparrow foraging a few feet away from the towhee. That is always a tough bird for me to find in Montana, so it was great to have one put in an appearance for me here. With that, I made my way back to our hotel so that Amy and I could go find a fun restaurant to dine at. What I didn’t realize is how much good Canadian birding still lay ahead of me.

The lovely mastermind behind our surprise Victoria trip, my wife Amy, enjoying high tea at the Fairmont Empress Hotel.

(For the second part of this story, see “In Search of the Marbled Murrelet”.)

Birding Glacier National Park in “The Hot, Dry Winter” of 2024

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Our thoughts go to all of the Californians getting hammered by unprecedented rains right now, and we hope that you are all staying safe—and preferably indoors. While the Southwest is getting one historic climate event, Montana has been getting another: record heat and dryness. Both of these add a heightened sense of urgency to tackling climate change by reducing greenhouse emissions and promoting renewable energy. And, of course, these events are certainly impacting birds. Last week, I had a chance to explore one of our nation’s most pristine areas to see what the birds are doing.

Even before I moved to Montana in 1996, I had visions of visiting the Many Glacier Valley in the depths of winter. In college, I had spent the best summer of my life working as a cook at Swiftcurrent Motor Lodge, and had returned to the valley many times since then—but never in our darkest, coldest season. What would this wonderland be like covered in snow and ice? Last week, almost fifty years after working there, I got a chance to find out. The only thing missing? Winter itself.

I had been invited to spend four days visiting with pre-K through grade 1 students in Browning, Montana, a trip I looked forward to for many reasons, including the chance to learn more about Blackfeet culture and explore the area. As a bonus, I would be working mainly in the afternoons, freeing up the mornings for birding and other activities. As the librarian and I put together the trip, however, I never imagined that I would be visiting during an unprecedentedly warm winter in which temperatures were breaking records daily and the landscape stood almost devoid of snow.

On the drive to Browning, I stopped at the Freezeout Lake wetlands complex near Great Falls and counted several thousand Canada Geese and Mallards. To my surprise, the geese were flagged as rare on eBird for this time of year. Why? Because the lakes are almost always frozen in January and February, but this year large areas of open water shimmered, inviting both geese and ducks.

The disturbing presence of open water at Freezeout Lake is attracting its share of Canada Geese and Mallards this “non-winter.”

Reaching the outskirts of Browning, I turned right for a side trip to Cut Bank. In a normal winter, this entire area would be covered in snow, providing a chance to find Snowy Owls, Snow Buntings, and other typical winter birds. Not today. Driving mud and gravel back roads, I was lucky to find a solitary Rough-legged Hawk on a telephone pole. I did flush one group of 15 smaller birds that I assume were Horned Larks, but nothing else of note. In fact, the main birds I was seeing were the stalwart ravens, magpies, House Sparrows, starlings, and pigeons.

When Thursday rolled around, my birding hopes rose as I got up early and drove toward Babb, the entrance to the Many Glacier Valley on the east side of Glacier National Park. I had no idea how much of the road was open, but made it to the park boundary at Lake (reservoir) Sherburne dam. There, I parked and donned my camera and binoculars.

The Lake Sherburne Reservoir at the Glacier National Park boundary, where I began my jaunt into the Many Glacier Valley.

I couldn’t have asked for a more astonishing day. By 9:00 a.m., temps had reached into the mid-30s and were rising rapidly. Despite an extremely dry winter, a thin layer of snow covered the spectacular peaks of the continental divide and full sunlight created an unparalleled, dazzling landscape. As an extra “cherry,” a waning gibbous moon slowly sank toward 9,300-foot Mount Allen. I paused to take a deep breath and appreciate that I was probably the only person on earth observing this incredible scene. Then, I set out.

A raven greeted me as I stepped into the park, but I wondered if I would see any other animals. Would a grizzly bear be taking a mid-winter stroll on a day this warm? I didn’t know, but spotted no other critter as I walked half a mile along the reservoir. I didn’t have a great deal of time, so I turned around after 20 minutes, and as the day continued to warm, a few birds made an appearance. I heard Black-capped Chickadees and a woodpecker drumming in the distance. Then, a grouse burst out of some stunted aspen trees to my left. I desperately watched it flying away, looking for any ID clues, but alas, I just don’t know grouse well enough to be sure. The bird was gray, however, and the habitat was wrong for Ruffed and Spruce Grouse, rendering a 95% probability of Dusky Grouse, but since I wasn’t sure, I didn’t record it on eBird.

Despite the incredible scenery, I was feeling a bit thwarted bird-wise, and calculated that I had time for another hour of exploration, so I drove back out to Babb, turned left, and then left again on the road leading to the Canadian border and Waterton Lakes National Park. My mission? To find Boreal Chickadees! In fact, I was driving the very road where Braden and I had discovered our lifer BOCHs three years before (see post “Are you ready for . . . the QUACH?”). That had been during early covid days when hardly a soul traveled the road. Would I be able to find any birds today?

My first chickadee sighting along the road proved to be a mixed flock of Black-capped and Mountain Chickadees feeding on knapweed seed pods—perhaps for insect larvae. Cool, but not the object of my quest.

The road wound its way up through scenic pastures and aspen groves, climbing steadily until it reached conifers—all under the magnificent gaze of Chief Mountain. As before, I passed not a car along the way. I pulled over twice and played the calls of Boreal Chickadees, but no bird responded. Then, I actually saw a flock of chickadees up ahead and eagerly braked to a halt.

Not BOCHs. Instead, a mixed flock of Mountain and Black-capped Chickadees, with a Red-breasted Nuthatch joining them.

One of Glacier’s most iconic mountains, Chief Mountain stands watch over the northeastern part of the park, including the road up to Waterton Lakes National Park.

Undeterred, I continued, and soon stopped for another flock of Black-cappeds. I wondered how much exploring I had time for, but passed a Border Patrol truck and soon was forced to stop at the closed boundary of Glacier National Park. Turning around, I again parked to play a BOCH call with no luck. The Border Patrol truck approached and the agent rolled down his window for a chat. I told him what I was looking for and asked him if he saw many birds along this stretch. “Some Stellar’s Jays,” he answered, “but not a lot else.”

I thought the road to Canada’s Waterton Lakes National Park might be open, but alas, no. Fortunately, the chickadees were on my side of the boundary!

I wished him a good day and continued driving back toward Babb. Before the road began descending again, a large pull-out opened up on the left and I stopped one last time. Not expecting much, I played a BOCH song and made some pishing noises. Within moments, six chickadees surrounded me! Boreal Chickadees!

With their curiosity and handsome features, Boreal Chickadees may just seize the title for Most Delightful Chickadees.

The chickadees were much more curious about me than their congeners (animals in the same scientific genus, i.e. the Black-capped and Mountain Chickadees). The Boreal Chickadees flew back and forth above me and called from nearby branches. I even nabbed some decent photos. I spent ten or fifteen minutes with them, barely believing I was having such a great experience with these elusive, high-altitude and high-latitude songbirds. It once again renewed my appreciation for living and birding in Montana, since this region is one of the few places this species dips into the United States from its main distribution in Canada.

This Boreal Chickadee might have been auditioning for the Chickadee Choir with how much it called to me.

Feeling satisfied and grateful for such a marvellous morning, I headed back to Browning, spotting only a few ravens and Rough-legged Hawks along the way. No matter. The BOCHs and breathtaking views of the Many Glacier Valley had made this a day I would never forget. Now if we can only get some snow.

Fall Birding in Glacier National Park

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Last week, after speaking at the monthly meeting of Flathead Audubon (see post “Birding with the President”), I spent the night with my gracious hosts, Darcy and Rob Thomas, and rose at 5 a.m. for a birding excursion to Glacier National Park. Powered by an egg and sausage burrito from City Brew, I made it to the park by 7:00 and rumbled and bumped my way up Inner North Fork Road. Braden, Nick Ramsey, and I had been here only five weeks before on a quest to find me a Lifer Spruce Grouse, and guess what? I was still on that quest! Today, though, I decided to try a different route, the Camas Creek Trail that leads east toward the heart of the park. I arrived to find the little parking area totally empty and, after strapping on my fanny pack, and slinging my camera and binoculars over my shoulders, set out under a dawn sky.

Sunrise at Camas Meadow. Need I say more?

Entering a patch of woods, I walked quietly and raised my senses to full alert. I didn’t want to scare away a Spruce Grouse along the trail, but I also wanted to spot a grizzly bear before it spotted me! Of course, park officials recommend hiking noisily to alert bears to your presence, but for birders this obviously is a counterproductive strategy. Bear spray would probably have been a good idea, but as usual I forgot to bring any. Within a quarter mile of the trailhead, however, I got a good scare.

I was rounding a bend with some trees on the right when suddenly a large shape launched from a branch and spread enormous gray wings. Owl! my brain shouted as my heart hammered, but which kind? The park contained only two large-owl possibilities: Great Gray and Great Horned. I hurried forward, trying to see where it was headed, but failed miserably. Without ever facing toward me, it disappeared through some trees, never to be seen again. My gut and the length of the owl’s wings tells me it was a Great Gray Owl but I will never know. Sigh.

After that startling start, my hike settled down. I reached Camas Meadow just as the sun began peeking over the Continental Divide and savored being absolutely alone in one of the world’s most beautiful places. I got here so early that the birds were off to a slow start. I saw a few flitting around, and Merlin’s Sound ID feature informed me that they were Pine Siskins and Yellow-rumped Warblers. It also told me that the chickadees I was hearing were Mountain Chickadees. Other than that, the action languished.

Despite this rather poor image, one of the highlights of my Camas Meadow trail hike was the abundance of Yellow-rumped Warblers fattening up for migration.

Fortunately, that held true on the grizzly bear front, too. I passed some scat, but it looked like black bear poop (smaller, full of berries, less messy), and was old to boot. In fact, I passed few fruiting plants relative to other places I’d recently visited in western Montana—a fact that might bode poorly for possible grouse sightings.

I hiked for about two, two-and-a-half miles, before pausing for a drink of water and, reluctantly, turning around. Fortunately, as I began retracing my route, rising temperatures seemed to lead to greater bird activity. Most impressive were the number of Yellow Warblers. I tallied at least 30, but am sure I undercounted. Their chips sprung from many locations, and I also spotted a couple of Ruby-crowned Kinglets (one boldly displaying its red crown), Dark-eyed Juncos, and Pine Siskins. An occasional Northern Flicker called sharply overhead.

I was surprised to spot this Red-naped Sapsucker in Glacier. I hadn’t realized they hung around Montana quite so long!
What would the world be like without Northern Flickers? Not a place I want to live in!

About halfway back to the car, I saw a small brown bird flitting about in a bush. Its furtive skulking behavior distinguished it from the other birds I’d been seeing, so I stopped and raised my binoculars, waiting for a clear look. It took a few moments, but it finally showed itself—a Lincoln’s Sparrow! One day, Braden and I will have to list our Top 10 Favorite Sparrows, but for me, Lincoln’s is Number One. Not only does it display a gorgeous, subtle color palette, it seems to have a more curious, delightful nature than other sparrows. When Braden and I began birding almost a decade ago, a Lincoln’s Sparrow was the first sparrow that really made a big impression on me. We devoted several outings to the chase before finally seeing one, so maybe its uncommonness also has something to do with my ranking.

This delightful Lincoln’s Sparrow captured “Bird of the Hike” honors for my visit to Camas Meadow.

After spending a few minutes with Mr. Lincoln’s, I continued hiking. A Red-naped Sapsucker surprised me. Then, I heard a series of eerie whooping noises that reminded me a bit of an Osprey. “What the heck?” I muttered. Then I saw it: a Canada Jay swooping in for a landing high in a nearby tree. A couple of other CAJAs also appeared. The jays, one of my favorite corvids, always delight with their antics and these provided a great way to wrap up my hike. Yes, I had once again missed a Spruce Grouse, but I’d gotten a good sense for what’s going on with the birds in Glacier this time of year. That was invaluable knowledge in my continuing education as a birder. It also happened to make a real contribution to science in the park.

I had no idea what was making that eerie looping call—until I saw this Canada Jay fly to a nearby treetop.

Returning home, I looked up how many eBird checklists have been posted for Camas Creek Trail in the fall. To my astonishment, mine was only the second ever checklist for September! (The other list, from later in the month, noted only three species.) A couple of lists have been posted later, but my own provides the only eBird data for this interesting time of year. Now I know this sounds like boasting, but I mention it to emphasize two important facts:

  1. Even though birding has been around a long time, HUGE gaps remain in what we know about almost every bird species, its movements, and habits.
  2. Your citizen science contributions matter. Sometimes it’s a pain or inconvenient to post what you see on eBird, but you just never know when you will be providing crucial information to a scientist or policy expert wanting to learn something new or make an important decision.

And really, could it get any better? Contributing to knowledge while being out having a great time? I don’t think so. Just keep an eye out for those grizzly bears.

In Search of the Wily White-Tailed Ptarmigan, 2022: with VIDEO!

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Happy Labor Day Weekend, Everyone! We hope you are not laboring too much and, instead, getting out for some birding. We’ve been “blog quiet” for a few weeks, and that’s no accident. I have been once again driving for Missoula Fire Cache once or twice a week (see Birding by 5-Ton Truck), Braden came home from California & then jetted back to school in Maine, and the birds? Well, they’ve been pretty quiet. During his time at home, though, Braden and I decided on a last-minute two-day intense trip of birding, first to look for shorebirds and then to find a bird I had wanted to see for years. Here is Part 2 of our adventure, Part 1 to come soon. Enjoy!

They were the first birds of the day—a pair of roosting Osprey silhouetted against the indigo dawn sky at the Saint Mary’s entrance to Glacier National Park. We had arrived on schedule after rising at 4:00 a.m. and driving from our Super 8 motel in Cut Bank—the only affordable lodging within a 100-mile radius of Glacier. We had had to get here early, too, as the park’s new visitor policy required a reservation for anyone arriving between 6 a.m. and 4 p.m. Chances are we would have risen early anyway since we faced a long hike and, for me, a lifelong ambition: to see a White-tailed Ptarmigan.

First birds of the day: Osprey at the St. Mary’s entrance. I’m pretty sure that Glacier NP pays these birds to sit here and keep visitors entertained while they endure the long lines into the park!

If this goal sounds familiar it’s because just a year ago, Braden had accompanied a storied group of other birders with the same mission and in the very same location (see Ptarmigan Party in Glacier National Park). Unfortunately, I had been forced to skip that outing because of work obligations—and now was my time to make amends. Entering the park with a handful of other early-rising vehicles, we quickly encountered our only charismatic megafauna of the day—a handsome black bear angling across the road. As the dim light gradually revealed the spectacular peaks around us, we drove for twenty more minutes until we reached the tiny parking area for the Piegan Pass trailhead. After getting ourselves sorted, we set out through forest, savoring our solitude, the crisp morning air, and more than anything, the enchanting smells of Glacier National Park.

Our hike would take us five miles and more than 2,000 feet up to Piegan Pass, a climb I’d always wanted to make but never had, despite spending an entire summer working as a cook in Glacier in 1979. In addition to our primary goal, we had several other targets, some more likely than others: Boreal Chickadees, Spruce Grouse, Black Swifts, Three-toed Woodpeckers, White-winged Crossbills, and any kind of rosy-finch. As we climbed one mile, then another, however, Braden remarked, “It’s quieter than it was last summer.” Still, I didn’t complain. It just felt wonderful to once again be doing a “real hike” with my son in one of my favorite places on the planet. And slowly, a few birds started showing themselves: Mountain Chickadees, Golden-crowned Kinglets, Chipping Sparrows, and to our delight, a pair of Boreal Chickadees (see Are You Ready for the QUACH?).

A Boreal Chickadee from Braden’s “Ptarmigan Hike” in 2021.

“Well, we got at least one target bird,” I said, and Braden nodded. As we climbed higher and higher, however, I felt anything but confident that the ptarmigan would be waiting for us. The thing about the White-tailed Ptarmigan, though, is that I was pretty sure I’d seen one before. In 1979, while hiking to Grinnell Glacier, I’d encountered a bird with a chick or two sitting right in the middle of the trail. At the time I felt certain it was a ptarmigan, but I hadn’t been a birder, and forty years on, I had reasoned, “Well, it could have been another kind of grouse.” Bottom line: I had never listed it and felt I still had to earn it for my Life List.

Grizzly Bear? No. Grizzly, or rather, Hoary Marmot 7,000 feet up.

After about four miles, we left the last of the trees and could see the trail cutting across more than a mile of rocky slope up to the pass. My body had started to feel the effort and elevation by now, but that last mile passed remarkably quickly—perhaps because we were trying to keep ahead of this older Belgian woman who threatened to put us to shame. Where do these vigorous geriatric European hikers come from anyway??? In any case, we finally reached the pass and before beginning our ptarmigan search, sat on some rocks to enjoy lunch while staring out at one of the world’s most superlative views down the far canyon to the Many Glacier Valley.

While eating our lunch, we were treated to a glorious gibbous moon “setting” over the rugged cliffs above us.

After we stowed our daypacks behind some rocks, Braden showed me where they had found the ptarmigan the year before. “They like to hang out right at the base of snow banks with some cover nearby,” he explained. Despite our ultra-hot summer, some snow persisted at the pass and we began making our way along the bottom of the longest, most promising field. After ten minutes, we had discovered a couple of burly marmots and an adorable pika, but no ptarmigan and I began thinking, I guess we’re not going to see them today. I felt disappointed, but kept my positive attitude, focusing on the near-perfect, glorious day and the unparalleled views of Jackson Glacier several miles away. And, of course, I kept looking.

Even as my hopes for finding a ptarmigan faded, I felt more than consoled by spectacular views of Jackson Glacier several miles away. (Our parking area is visible below.)

Braden had taken a higher route than I and disappeared around a bend. I walked more slowly, scouring every suspicious rock, and wondered if I’d even see a ptarmigan if my eyes happened to land on it. I scrambled down some rough scree to a lower level and started back toward the pass, hopping over rivulets of meltwater trickling over the rocks. I was standing at the edge of a little grotto when I heard a really strange noise coming down from the mountainside above. It was unlike anything I’d heard and I can’t even describe it here, but I wondered, “Could that possibly be a ptarmigan?” I didn’t think so, but hadn’t a clue what else it might be.

While searching, I heard a bizarre noise from the rocky cliffs above me. “Could it be a ptarmigan?” I wondered.

Just then, I saw Braden reappear above me and about fifty meters away. “Did you hear that noise?” I called.

“What?” he answered, too far away to hear me.

“Never mind,” I said—just as I happened to glance at the grotto behind me.

And for a split second, I wondered about the powers of wishful thinking. Why? Because not fifteen feet away, two birds walked slowly across the wet gravel. Two White-tailed Ptarmigans!

And they were real.

How many ptarmigans are in this photo? I’ll forgive you if you at first see only one. I always do! It shows just how wonderfully adapted these birds are to their environment.

I stared at them for a moment and then whirled to holler, “Braden!”

“Do you have something?” he called back.

I excitedly held up two fingers and pointed behind me. A minute later, we were standing together admiring some of the coolest birds in Montana. The birds—an adult and a juvenile—seemed totally unalarmed by our presence. They gave us the once-over occasionally, but as long as we stayed ten or fifteen feet away, they seemed to have no problem with us. They just walked slowly, picking at the ground for various plant material and invertebrates as we took dozens of photographs and gave each other several hugs. Soon, we spotted a second adult doing its own thing ten yards away. It was a dream fulfilled for me, and perhaps even for Braden since we got to see them together. As we hiked back down the mountain, I felt real satisfaction at having experienced these amazing birds and a sense of peace knowing that they are still up there, high in the mountains doing their thing. I hope that you all get to see one for yourselves one day, but if not, please enjoy this video. It’s the next best thing.  

As the gals from Pitch Perfect might say, our day in Glacier proved “Ptarmi-Pterrific!”