Tag Archives: Warblers

Our Official 2023 FSB Recap: Bird Names, Bird Clubs, and Lifers

2023 proved to be another wildly surprising year for the FatherSonBirding team. Not only did Braden and I see birds we never dreamed we’d see, but birding opportunities and the enthusiasm of our loyal FSB followers exceeded every expectation. But first, some 2023 stats:

Blogs Posted: 32

FSB Views: 9,361 (easily eclipsing last year’s record of 7,185)

Most Viewed Post: Avian Reveal: Our Five Picks for New Bird Names (598 views)

In addition to the above stats, we surpassed 30,000 lifetime blog views and have now published 174 posts since we began FSB in 2018. Even though this is far short of what is required to annoy you with paid advertisements, it’s still remarkable to us. When we began FSB, Braden and I thought we might keep at it for a year or two at most. Now, almost six years later, FSB has actually generated a body of work that we are immensely proud of. It’s been a way for us to share our adventures, promote birding, and connect with other birders. It’s also been a fun vehicle for educating others about birds and bird conservation. So let’s get to 2023’s highlights for each of us.

Sneed’s 2023 Birding Highlights

Japan: Without a doubt, my biggest highlight of the year was taking my daughter, Tessa, to Japan for three weeks. Together, we created a lifetime of memories in a country we loved even more than we thought we would. As you all discovered with my posts about Tokyo, Kyoto, Kanazawa, and other places, I got in plenty of birding, adding 28 species to my Life List and getting to know more than fifty species of common Japanese birds. (Note that Kanazawa is near the epicenter of this morning’s 7.5 earthquake. We are thinking of all of you over there, and hope everyone is safe!)

**One of my favorite Japanese birds, a male Daurian Redstart.**

Birding Eastern Montana: Thanks to assignments from Montana Outdoors magazine, I had the opportunity to drive out to Westby with my childhood buddy, Scott Callow. We not only hit hotspots such as Bowdoin NWR, Plentywood, Makoshika SP, and Bear Canyon, we had a wonderful visit with FWP biologist Heather Harris who took us on an up-close-and-personal visit to some of Montana’s healthiest short-grass prairie. There, we got my best looks ever at Sprague’s Pipits, Chestnut-collared Longspurs, and other prairie residents.

**Heading to Westby with my friend Scott was not only a great way to see great Montana birds, but a rare chance to catch up with a lifelong friendship!**

Adding Montana Lifers: While in Westby, Scott and I saw my first Piping Plover in Montana, but during the rest of the year—and with the help of other Montana birders—I also added three species to my all-time worldwide Life List: Sagebrush Sparrow (Bear Canyon), American Golden-plover (Mission Valley), and Spruce Grouse (Mission Mountains).

**This Sagebrush Sparrow was probably my favorite new ABA Lifer of 2023–and proves that great things can come in small packages!**

In addition to the above highlights, Braden and I got to bird together several times, including a breakneck trip to Glacier NP with our buddy, Nick Ramsey. I also had the pleasure of meeting a lot of other Montana birders at Wings Across the Big Sky and the meeting of Flathead Audubon. At the beginning of 2023, I had entertained visions of breaking my Montana Big Year record with my work trips to eastern Montana—but didn’t. I came close, however, racking up 253 species, including my last two: Short-eared Owl and Northern Shrike on Braden’s and my last big Montana outing. And now . . .

**Despite Braden and Nick’s busy lives getting educated and building their birder resumés, we all managed to squeeze in a quick 3-day trip to Freezeout Lake and Glacier National Park last summer.**

Braden’s 2023 Birding Highlights

Eastern Songbirds: A long-time goal of mine has been to learn the eastern songbirds, specifically the eastern wood-warblers, by ear. This summer, thanks to my job doing point counts in the woods of northeastern Pennsylvania, I succeeded at that goal, solidifying nearly two dozen warbler songs in my mental repertoire, including those of Magnolia, Canada, Mourning and Golden-winged Warblers. Beyond that, I got to spend all of May and June, and some of July, romping around the forests of the Appalachians, learning about the ecology of all of these species. I fell in love with Golden-winged Warblers, with their specialized habitat needs and endearing personalities, and came to know not only the species of birds in these forests, but also the trees the birds were using. Highlighted by a trip to Cape May and a trip to the Adirondacks, my summer in Pennsylvania may have taught me more about the natural world than any summer I’ve lived through yet!

**Getting to know Eastern warblers—including Golden-winged Warblers—fulfilled a long-held ambition of mine.**

Western Field Ornithologists Conference: In July, I said goodbye to my co-workers and the woods of Pennsylvania and flew across the country to Denver, Colorado, where I was picked up by one of the members of the board of Western Field Ornithologists (WFO). There started my week-long, high-energy stay in the alpine zone of Colorado, where I proceeded to not only see hordes of birds (including two lifers, Virginia’s Warbler and Brown-capped Rosy-finch) as well as meet a variety of people of all ages, who had converged at the WFO annual conference thanks to their passion for birds. During this conference, I got to hang out with a squadron of young birders from California and meet people like David Tonnessen, a native Coloradan guide, Nathan Pieplow, one of North America’s leading experts on bird sound, Ted Floyd, the editor of Birding magazine, Chris Wood, one of the founders of eBird, and Jesse Barry, one of the lead developers for the Merlin app. It was a whirlwind week, during which I bushwhacked through alpine tundra in search of White-tailed Ptarmigan and Dusky Grouse (only the latter of which we saw), scoped distant prairie potholes for shorebirds, and trekked through spruce-fir forest in the dark of night in an attempt for Boreal Owl. I’ll be sure to attend more of these conferences, whenever I am able to!

The field trips before the WFO conference gave me my first crack at Colorado birding!

Starting the UMaine Birding Club: Last semester, several people told me that if the University of Maine had a Birding Club, they would join. This year, after a few MORE people told me that, I just decided to buckle down and start one. Our first meeting, which took place on September 14th, was a raging success, with more than thirty people filling the classroom I’d reserved to hear me give my elevator pitch for the club. After a ten-minute talk, we headed out across campus in search of fall migrants, which we found in the form of a Ruby-throated Hummingbird and several Cape May Warblers. The rest is history. I put on twelve meetings this year, and led twelve outings as well. I made sure that our meetings were diverse, with some days featuring guest lectures about bird jobs or indoor bird scavenger hunts and others pitting club members against each other in Bird Jeopardy. My personal favorite was a thirty-minute talk I gave on everything wrong with the state birds, and we finished out the year last Thursday with a movie night featuring The Big Year. Our outings, highlighted by one trip to Sebasticook Lake and another to the coast, tallied ninety total species, including Sandhill Cranes and an American Goshawk, which both became “Bird of the Day” on their respective trips. Overall, starting a Birding Club was one of the most meaningful things I’ve ever done and I can’t wait to jump back into it next fall—after I’ve returned from studying abroad in Costa Rica!

**Quizzing the UMaine Birding Club on bird vocalizations!**

So that’s a wrap, people. Braden and I want to thank you for tuning in and sharing your enthusiasm with us, and we hope that 2024 brings you a rewarding year of seeing, learning about, and protecting the animals we all love.

Avian Reveal: Our Five Picks for New Bird Names

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We had planned to publish this post on Thanksgiving, but were in Minnesota and the “auto publish” tool failed—and not for the first time. Still, we hope you enjoy this post-Thanksgiving post, and even more, we hope you all had a lovely long weekend with friends and family. Braden and I have much to be grateful for—including you, our faithful readers—and thank you for your interest and enthusiasm over the years. Now get out there and bird!

Lest you think the birding community is immune from internecine disputes, I present to you two issues that have been roiling birders for the past decade: the woeful situation of horrible state bird choices, and the more recent—and contentious—decision by the American Ornithological Society to begin changing English language common names of all birds named after people. Braden recently addressed the disgraceful situation surrounding our state birds in his post “Getting Serious About State Birds”. Today, I’d like to tackle the AOS’s earth-shaking naming decision.

If you’re a birder, you pretty much have to be living under a rock not to know about this recent shocker. A complete, explanatory news release can be found here, but basically, the American Ornithological Society has long assumed responsibility for the English language common names of all American birds. After years of debate, it has decided to axe all eponymous bird names—those honoring specific individuals. This decision has triggered several immediate results. One is to improve the vocabulary of millions of Americans (myself included) who have had to look up the word “eponymous” in the dictionary. The second is to unleash a foaming volcano of vitriol as birders across America—nay, the world—have vigorously defended and attacked the new policy.

I’ll just come out and say that both Braden and I generally support the AOS decision, but as with most things, the matter is more nuanced than passionate social media posts lead you to believe. There’s no question that certain eponymous names can be deemed offensive, but there are plenty of others that you have to try really hard to be offended by—and it’s a shame we have to chuck the baby out with the (bird) bath water. Unfortunately, failing to do so would ignite endless, often pointless debate about each and every eponymous bird name that exists. All of that time, energy, and money is better spent protecting birds rather than debating their names, and so the AOS wisely decided to wipe the slate clean.

Rather than add to the already burdensome body of opinion flooding the media, Braden and I decided it would be fun simply to pick five of our favorite Rocky Mountains birds that will be impacted by this decision—and try to come up with the perfect new names for each. We hope you will weigh in with your own (non-offensive) thoughts about our choices, as well as your own (non-offensive) alternatives. We will start with perhaps our favorite North American warbler—and perhaps the most difficult to rename.

MACGILLIVRAY’S WARBLER

One of the ironies of MacGillivray’s Warbler is that it was named after an 18^th-century Scottish ornithologist who devoted much of his life to, you guessed it, coming up with better names for British birds! Names such as Red-throated Thistlefinch, Quaketail, and Provence Furzeling—none of which survived the test of time. MacGillivray was a controversial figure and apparently offended almost everyone during his lifetime, but that didn’t stop John James Audubon from naming one of our most spectacular American warblers after him. I mean, just look at this bird. He’s not as showy as some others, but his colors are refined, sophisticated. Any lady of quality will recognize it—and if his looks don’t do it, his sweet sophisticated song will clinch the deal. Braden and I always stop when a MGWA pops out of a bush, and we’re not the only ones. But what should the AOS call it?

The bird breeds in shrubby places, often near streams or in recent burn areas, but somehow Shrubby Warbler or Second-growth Warbler don’t seem deserving of this special bird. As far as its looks, Hooded Warbler and Mourning Warbler are already taken—and honestly, aren’t all that great anyway. The partial white eye rings stand out, and are an identification key, so perhaps Crescent-Eyed Warbler? Its hood also gives off a velvet or satiny sheen, so Velvet-hooded Warbler? Quicksilver Warbler? Silver-headed Warbler? After much agonizing, we have landed on Satin Crescent-Eye. Of the five birds included here, this one poses the toughest challenge, so we’d love to hear your suggestions!

CLARK’S NUTCRACKER

When William Clark, of the famous Lewis and Clark Expedition, first saw a Clark’s Nutcracker, he thought it was a woodpecker. However, that didn’t prevent the bird from becoming one of the most iconic species of the West. Clark’s Nutcrackers are especially known for planting high-altitude pine forests—especially those of the White-barked Pine. Each bird caches thousands of pine seeds, far more than it can use, and the overlooked seeds sprout into new forests. The birds and trees are so interconnected that the pines have actually evolved changes in the shapes of their seeds and cones that facilitate dispersal by the nutcracker. Because of this important and fascinating relationship, Braden and I hereby vote to bestow the bird with the name Whitebark Nutcracker. Long live the nutcracker!

LEWIS’S WOODPECKER

Despite the rather embarrassing ID mistake with the Clark’s Nutcracker, the Lewis & Clark Expedition did end up being honored with a woodpecker after all—the Lewis’s Woodpecker. Renaming this bird has engendered spirited debate on Facebook and elsewhere, perhaps because Lewis’s may be America’s most stunning woodpecker. With a green back that often looks black, a subtle gray collar, and an absolutely spectacular watermelon-colored breast and face, the bird has inspired a host of potential names such as Glamorous Woodpecker, Pink-and-Green Woodpecker, and Silver-scarfed Glossy Woodpecker. To us, these kinds of names seem a bit plebian and uninspired. Not only that, the decline of the species is most closely related to the loss of a particular type of tree, so why not bestow a name that involves some education as well? Because of this, we officially propose—nay, insist—that this bird henceforth be called the Cottonwood Woodpecker.

TOWNSEND’S SOLITAIRE

Both Townsend’s Solitaire and Townsend’s Warbler—not to mention at least half a dozen mammals—are named after noted 19^th-century naturalist John Kirk Townsend. Townsend came from an ardently anti-slavery Quaker family and accompanied renowned botanist Thomas Nuttall (Nuttall’s Woodpecker) on an 1834 expedition across the Rocky Mountains to the Pacific. During this time, Townsend collected numerous specimens new to Western science—including, coincidentally—MacGillivray’s Warbler! As if all that wasn’t enough to make us love Townsend’s Solitaires, this is a bird that symbolizes the onset of winter, as it descends to our neighborhood after its mountain breeding season. Add to that its lively, musical song and subtle good looks, and the bird has had no trouble flying into our hearts. The AOS decision also gives us a chance to bestow the perfect, slam-dunk name on the bird: Silver Solitaire.

LINCOLN’S SPARROW

You might think that if ever a bird deserves to keep its eponymous name, it’s got to be Lincoln’s Sparrow, right? I mean who can argue with the president that consistently sits atop the list of greatest presidents in our nation’s history? Alas, the bird isn’t named for that Lincoln. Instead, Audubon named it after the 21-year-old son of a friend, Thomas Lincoln, who accompanied him on an expedition to Labrador, Canada. Audubon had not seen a Lincoln’s Sparrow before, but when one popped up, Thomas Lincoln immediately shot it with a slingshot. Even with that fairly bittersweet story, Lincoln’s Sparrow rules our favorite sparrows list.

This bird exudes charm. It breeds in boggy habitats, usually among willows and often near taller perching trees. It sings a complex, multi-part composition that brightens any landscape, and will often pop out on a branch to give birders excellent viewing experiences. Though subtle, its colors are striking. A yellow wash on its breast and “moustache” contrast most beautifully with its gray and rufous head and white eye ring. The subtlety of its colors, however, and superficial resemblance to other sparrows, makes the bird particularly challenging to rename. Swamp Sparrow, after all, is already taken. Our friend, ornithologist Dick Hutto, suggests Willow Sparrow and that’s not half-bad, but we feel the bird deserves something more inspiring. We therefore dub it . . . Autumn Sparrow! This name not only matches its colors, but coincides with one of the two seasons when many U.S. birders have their best shot at seeing the bird since it can only be found in most states during migration.

So that’s a wrap. We’ve done the heavy listing for the AOS on some of America’s favorite birds. Now, the committee will just have to roll up its sleeves and figure out the other 75 or so species on their immediate list! Braden and I wish them good luck—and if they run into trouble, they know who to call. Our rates are very reasonable.

Getting Serious About State Birds

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The following is a written version of a presentation Braden gave to the UMaine Birding Club at last Thursday’s meeting. Warning: Do Not Read unless you have a sense of humor!

In the 1920s, the General Federation of Women’s Clubs decided that every state should have a bird to represent it, a bird of its very own. A diverse array of groups, including women’s clubs, schoolchildren, and state legislatures voted on the state birds, eventually giving each state a bird (well, almost every state, and we’ll get to that). But put quite simply, most of the state bird selections are bad, and I’m not the only birder who believes this. Almost anyone with knowledge of North America’s avifauna agrees that the people who selected the state birds of the United States of America did a woefully horrible job. Let’s go over why that is.

In order to call a state bird “bad,” you must first determine what makes a state bird “good.” I designed the following set of criteria expressly for this purpose:

Each state must have a state bird.
The state bird must be a real bird.
The state bird must be wild.
The state bird must be unique to, native to, and representative of that state.
The state bird name must not be offensive or insulting to the vast majority of American citizens.

These criteria should be easy to fulfill, but after analyzing each and every state bird, I determined that a mere thirteen of the state birds qualify as “good.” Willow Ptarmigan, for example, is the state bird of Alaska. Willow Ptarmigans are real, wild birds found across the entire state. Furthermore, they represent their state in a way no other state birds could. To wit, much of Alaska in summer is brown—and so is the Willow Ptarmigan. In winter, Alaska is white—and so is Willow Ptarmigan. Finally, their name doesn’t offend anyone. This, then, is a great example of what a state bird can and should be.

**The Scissor-tailed Flycatcher is a stunning example of a great state bird. Good job Oklahoma—though how Texas overlooked it is beyond us.**

Twelve other states met my criteria, due to their well-thought-out, unique selections. These include Georgia, with the Brown Thrasher, a widespread backyard bird with a great singing voice, and Oklahoma, with the Scissor-tailed Flycatcher, a bird that only breeds in a limited part of the country that includes Oklahoma. It also sports striking colors and an impressive caboose. The other states with good state birds are: Arizona (Cactus Wren); Colorado (Lark Bunting); Hawaii (Nene); Louisiana (Brown Pelican, my dad’s favorite bird); Maryland (Baltimore Oriole); Minnesota (Common Loon); New Hampshire (Purple Finch); New Mexico (Greater Roadrunner); South Carolina (Carolina Wren); and finally, Vermont, with Hermit Thrush as its avian emblem.

**New Mexico’s Greater Roadrunner offers yet another excellent state bird example—though we saw this one behind a gas station in Tucson, Arizona.**

The bad news? THIRTY-SEVEN states fail the “good bird” criteria, which, honestly, is ridiculous. Let’s take a closer look at how various states have failed in their selections, one criterion at a time.

CRITERION #1: EACH BIRD MUST HAVE A STATE BIRD.

Now, you’d think this one would be easy, right? The General Federation of Women’s Clubs said that each state should have a bird to represent it, and so all fifty of the states should have followed suit, right? Wrong. Pennsylvania, of all places, failed this most simple of tests. I had a job in Pennsylvania last summer, and loved it. I got to know the state’s avifauna well, with its dozens of breeding warblers and melodic Wood Thrushes and goofy Scarlet Tanagers. Golden-winged Warblers have leapt to the top of my all-time favorite birds list because of what I experienced—so you can imagine my utter disappointment upon finding out that the Keystone State completely lacks a “Keystone bird.”

Now, Pennsylvania does have a state game bird. Is this the same? No. No, it is not. South Carolina’s state game bird is the Northern Bobwhite. That is different from its state bird, the Carolina Wren. Georgia’s state game bird is the Wild Turkey, while its state bird is the Brown Thrasher. State birds should represent the cultural and ecological aspects of the regions they are chosen for. State game birds, on the other hand, are birds that people most like to shoot at. So no, I don’t care how adorable a Ruffed Grouse’s neck feathers look during the breeding season. It is the state game bird of Pennsylvania, but it is not the state bird. Sigh.

**As much as we love Ruffed Grouse, we’re sorry Pennsylvania: it does not count for your state bird!**

CRITERION #2: THE STATE BIRD MUST BE A REAL BIRD.

This is what I got the most flack about during my birding club presentation, and it was mainly due to the two club members from New Jersey. Go figure. So let’s talk about goldfinches. There are three goldfinches native to North America. One is the American Goldfinch, one of the continent’s most widespread species. Another is the Lesser Goldfinch, found in the arid southwest (and now, likely thanks to climate change, parts of Montana). The third breeds only in California and winters in the desert—the Lawrence’s Goldfinch. American, Lesser, Lawrence’s. Three goldfinches. Just three.

So why is New Jersey’s state bird the EASTERN Goldfinch? That’s not a thing! It does not exist! You might say, “Well, Braden, I’m from New Jersey and think I’m pretty cool and would like to inform you that Eastern Goldfinch is actually the subspecies of American Goldfinch found in New Jersey.” My response: “Well Mr. and/or Mrs. New Jersey, I didn’t think I had to clarify that a state bird must be a full species!” Your state bird cannot be an obscure subspecies, and beyond that, the people who picked the Eastern Goldfinch didn’t even know what subspecies are. They likely chose it because back then, American Goldfinches were known as Eastern Goldfinches in New Jersey. Well, guess what? It’s 2023 now, not 1923, so wake up and change your state bird’s name. Oh, and by the way, Iowa did the same thing! Thankfully, no western states would make this kind of ridiculous mis—

Oh, wait a minute. I forgot about Washington. Its state bird is the WILLOW Goldfinch! Did I stutter when I said there were three goldfinches in the U.S.? Eastern is not among them, and Willow most certainly is not! All this being said, these errors are mostly due to changes in bird names over the last century and states not updating those bird names. I was joking about what I said above, concerning Mr. and Mrs. New Jersey. Mostly. Let’s move on.

**Hello, New Jersey? These are Lawrence’s Goldfinches—actual, real birds. So-called “Eastern Goldfinches” are not!**

CRITERION #3: THE STATE BIRD MUST BE WILD.

Domesticated animals do not represent the unique land that each state contains. We brought them here for our own reasons, and they exist here simply to serve us. Wild birds are not like that. And so what was Rhode Island thinking when it selected a breed of chicken, the Rhode Island Red? Granted, Rhode Island doesn’t have much land to work with, but the state still has recorded more than 300 species of native, wild birds. Were all of the state legislators hungry the day they picked a chicken? Was Colonel Sanders sitting amongst these legislators, throwing feathers at them and offering to fund their next campaigns for office? Whatever the reason, Rhode Island somehow did a better job than Delaware, which not only selected a chicken, but picked the Delaware Blue Hen, something that isn’t even an officially recognized breed. Still, we’re not going to honor either selection with a photo.

CRITERION #4: THE STATE BIRD MUST BE UNIQUE TO, NATIVE TO, AND REPRESENTATIVE OF THAT STATE.

Oh, boy. Here we go. Up to this point, we’ve had a few failures per criterion—a state without a state bird here, two chickens there—but things are about to ramp up.

Let’s start with a state bird that isn’t *that* bad: California’s state bird, the California Quail. It’s found across the state, it’s familiar, it’s endearing, and it even has the state’s name embedded in it. There are seven birds named for the state of California, and I have to admit that the California Quail was a better choice than most of the others: the California Thrasher, Scrub-Jay, Gnatcatcher, Towhee and Gull. The quail is the second best California bird. But one overshadows it, one of North America’s largest birds, a critically endangered species that soars between the canyons of Big Sur State Park and over the rocky red pillars of Pinnacles National Park. This bird almost went extinct, thanks to DDT among other things, and is only still with us because of the work of Rachel Carson and hundreds of other hard-working conservationists. There’s really little to debate; the California Condor should, hands down, be California’s state bird. It may not be as widespread as the quail, but with persistent conservation efforts and luck, it may be again someday.

**During our Big Year, my dad and I were lucky enough to see California Condors—a slam-dunk for California’s state bird!**

Leaping down from that majestic image, I present to you Utah’s state bird: the California Gull. Do you see anything wrong here? Not only did Utah select a bird named after another state, it probably picked the worst of the California-named birds. The choice involves Mormons and agriculture and hordes of grasshoppers and gulls appearing like angels in the rising sun to gobble up those grasshoppers and save the day. Still, human agricultural practices and ravenous insects are no reason to pick a state bird named after another state. Utah, you can do better. Maybe a project for Mitt Romney, now that he’s retiring?

And that brings us to the repeats. Maine and Massachusetts share Black-capped Chickadee as their state bird. Is Black-capped Chickadee a bad state bird? No. They’re one of North America’s most familiar birds and have adorable, curious personalities. In fact, they’re probably on my fairly long list of favorite birds. That said, a state bird should be unique. My solution? Give Mass the chickadee. Maine has a variety of excellent options, including boreal birds like Spruce Grouse and seabirds like Razorbill. And of course the Atlantic Puffin is plastered on every sign, billboard and advertisement in the coastal part of the state—why not make it the state bird?

Eastern Bluebird represents both New York and Missouri, creating the same problem. Again, there is nothing wrong with the bluebird as a state bird, but only one of these states should claim it. Idaho and Nevada both have Mountain Bluebird, and American Robin is the state bird of three states: Connecticut, Wisconsin and Michigan.

Northern Mockingbird represents five states, and it gets worse, because they include two of best birding states in the country: Texas and Florida. Both states receive a phenomenal array of species within their borders, with Florida recording more than 500 species and Texas surpassing 600. Texas is home to the endangered prairie-chickens that dance in the shortgrass prairie, an endemic warbler and vireo found in the hill country, dozens of colorful Mexican species, and just about every bird that migrates into or out of North America. Florida, meanwhile, holds two birds that feed exclusively on snails, a trio of birds found only in the endangered Longleaf Pine Savanna ecosystem, and a completely endemic corvid named after the state itself: the Florida Scrub-Jay. And yet, what did they choose? The Northern Mockingbird—along with Tennessee, Mississippi and Arkansas. As a humorous aside, I found this defense from an op-ed in a Florida newspaper arguing for the mockingbird and against the scrub-jay as the state’s bird: “The mockingbird is a well-established, independent, prolific bird that doesn’t need government protection or our tax dollars to survive.”

**Don’t get us wrong, people. We LOVE Northern Mockingbirds**, **but don’t you know you’re not supposed to copy off of other people’s exams?**

Believe it or not, Northern Mockingbird isn’t even the most commonly chosen state bird. Western Meadowlark is the state bird of six states, including Montana and Oregon, two diverse states that mean a lot to me. I’ve had a lot of fun experiencing the birdlife of these two places over the last decade (yes, my dad and I have been birding for a decade as of this January), and Western Meadowlark is an icon of the West, but again, six states do not need to have the same bird. For Montana I might suggest Black Swift, Sprague’s Pipit, or Chestnut-collared Longspur. Varied Thrush would make a stunning bird to grace Oregon’s flags and signs.

And that brings us to the Northern Cardinal, the state bird that just won’t stop. After Kentucky chose it in the early 1920s, six more states followed suit. I mean, it’s fun and red, but seriously??? With all the other great birds to choose from, the lack of creativity amongst these states is mind-boggling.

**The selection of Northern Cardinal by seven, count ’em, SEVEN states proves that a) state bird committees are lazy or b) Americans have an outsized love of Santa Claus and his red outfit.**

Oh, and as for the “native to” part of this criterion? South Dakota’s state bird is the Ring-necked Pheasant—a native of China, not the United States. Not even the same continent! Note to South Dakota politicians: you may not want to use this bird as part of your political platform. Which, finally, brings us to . . .

CRITERION #5: THE STATE BIRD MUST NOT BEAR A NAME OFFENSIVE TO LARGE GROUPS OF PEOPLE.

This is a no-brainer, and my dad will address it in an upcoming post.

For now, this post is longer than expected so I’ll wrap up swiftly. The state birds are bad, plain and simple. Most need to be changed. Do I think they ever will be? No. Meanwhile, if this post raised your blood pressure (and it should!), please let us know what you think your state bird should be!

Sifting Through Maine’s Fall Migrants

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Congratulations to Braden for having his first full-length article published, in the July/August 2023 issue of Bird Watcher’s Digest! The editor actually plucked the piece from our blog post “Montana Shorebird Surprise”! If you don’t already subscribe to BWD, I strongly encourage you to do so. It is packed with fun and interesting articles about all aspects of birds and birding—and honestly, magazines like this need our help to keep promoting bird conservation and foster our birding community. Learn more by clicking here. Meanwhile, enjoy Braden’s new fall migration report from Maine.

October, in Maine, is usually a major cutoff point for neotropical migrants. Warblers, specifically, seem to disappear from the state right around October 1st, having already moved through in large numbers in late August and September. Last year, I barely detected any warblers after the October curtain dropped, with my only species being Yellow-rumped and Palm Warblers (which are later migrants and do stick around until November) and two Tennessee Warblers that I worked my butt off to find on the first of the month.

**Oct. 1 is usually about the cutoff for seeing fall warbler migrants in Maine, leaving residents such as Downy Woodpeckers and . . .**

Because of this knowledge, I had no expectations when I hit the University of Maine Bike Path last weekend, October 7th. I had already birded the path several times this fall, once by myself (when I scored great looks at two Ovenbirds and a Canada Warbler, both of which were long gone by now) and once with the University of Maine Birding Club, which I had restarted in mid-September. This was the same path, though, that offered up American Woodcocks and American Bitterns in spring; the same place that hundreds of salamanders and frogs would migrate across on rainy nights in April. Unfortunately, none of those animals were active now, so again, I had no expectations and was pleasantly surprised to run into a flock of Yellow-rumped Warblers and other birds right off the bat.

**Ruby-crowned Kinglets are one of the “later” songbird migrants—in Maine as well as in Montana. I saw 17 of them on this outing!**

In fall, my birding strategy is to find the mixed flocks and sift through them until I’m reasonably sure I’ve identified all of the species. I did just this with the flock, finding a Palm Warbler, several Ruby-crowned Kinglets, and a Blackpoll Warbler in its drab, green winter plumage, adorned with orange feet. In terms of warblers, Blackpoll Warblers are one of the later migrants in Maine, and travel the farthest of any of the group, heading east from their boreal breeding grounds before flying south straight across the Atlantic Ocean to South America. I’d seen several in the Adirondacks this summer, in their spiffy black and white plumage, and it was nice getting to wave goodbye to them for the winter.

**Swamp Sparrows are a real find in Montana, but on my birding walk today, I counted at least 33 of them—a low estimate!**

After pishing in a few more mixed flocks, I reached one of the the bike path’s main attractions—a large, weedy field, hosting tall goldenrod and other plants that reminded me of the Fort Missoula gravel quarry back home. This, like the gravel quarry, was Sparrow Central. I waded out into the grass, flushing flocks of Song and Swamp Sparrows into the bushes, from where they watched me carefully as I checked each and every one of them. Ruby-crowned Kinglets chattered from the aspens and birches lining the perimeter of the field, and I pished at them with every chance I got, searching for anything rare. Soon, amongst a group of White-throated and Savannah Sparrows, I spotted a smaller, more crisply-patterned sparrow hop up onto a bramble: the Lincoln’s I had been hoping for! My dad and I had gotten our lifer Lincoln’s Sparrows in fall, and while I had seen and heard many this summer between the Adirondacks and the joint Western Field Ornithologists and Colorado Field Ornithologists conference I attended in alpine Colorado, I still sought out these stunning birds every time the colors on the trees began to change.

**My dad went out four times last week before he found a White-throated Sparrow migrating through Missoula. I counted 23 of them on my single outing**!

The Lincoln’s Sparrow abruptly disappeared as a small, yellow bird took its place: a Nashville Warbler, about a week after the last Nashville Warblers should have left for Central America! A few minutes later, in another horde of kinglets, I briefly spotted a Tennessee Warbler. Yay! The warblers were still here!

It wasn’t until I circled back over to the far end of the grassy field, however, that I found my real prize. As I sorted through yet another flock of kinglets and sparrows, I spotted it: a greenish, grayish warbler. Now, in Maine, in fall, this could describe just about every species of warbler since most have adopted relatively drab nonbreeding plumage. Nonetheless, I started checking off options in my head, narrowing it down.

The body was mostly green, with a green throat. That eliminated Palm, Pine, Nashville, Yellow-rumped, and any of the more colorful fall warblers. The head, meanwhile, contrasted with the green—it was slate gray, and the bird had broken eye-arcs. Those two features alone, plus a total lack of yellow or white, eliminated Blackpoll, Bay-breasted and Chestnut-sided. That left two species. Tennessee Warblers are easily identified in fall by their white vents (butt feathers)—but this bird’s vent was green. The bird I was looking at was one my dad has surely seen many times this fall and paid little attention to—an Orange-crowned Warbler!

**While migrating fall Orange-crowned Warblers are fairly common in Montana, in Maine they qualify as a genuine rarity!**

Orange-crowned Warblers are fairly common in most of the United States. They breed throughout the Rockies and are commonly seen in migration and winter across the country. They avoid Maine in migration, however, and don’t breed in the state, so this warbler is quite a rarity here! What’s more, early October is actually one of the best times to find them here, which is not the case for any other common Maine warbler. I celebrated for a moment before whipping out my camera to snap some photos of the bird, which I assumed I would need to prove that I’d actually seen it.

After the Orange-crowned Warbler moved on, I continued to walk the rest of the bike path, finding more flocks of sparrows, thrushes, and the occasional warbler. I even heard a few pipits fly over as I headed to McDonald’s for a respite from UMaine’s dining hall food. I’d had my best fall day of birding so far this year. Hopefully, more great birding was to come!

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!

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:

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.
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.