The Stone Birds

March 3, 2026brighamstephen 4 Comments

With apologies to the classic rock band based in New Jersey, and the notable children’s book by Jenny McCarthy, I’ll name this post the “The Stone Birds”. You might think I’m going to expound on the overlooked beauty of our Rock Doves, usually and ignominiously referred to as common pigeons, or the Rock-thrush I saw in India, or the equally beautiful Ruddy Turnstones, when in their breeding plumage. But I have more concrete birds in mind.

Chestnut-bellied Rock-thrush, *Monticola rufiventris*

For the last two years I have been a rookie participant in an actual stone sculpture class at “Arts Bonita” in Bonita Springs, Florida. It’s appropriately called “Romancing the Stone”, since one does develop a true love hate relationship with one’s rock over the many weeks of chiseling, grinding, sanding, and polishing.

Since I am a birder and this is a birding blog, my first project was an owl, and the second, a duck. I think these were good choices as the perching owls generally assume a simple shape, as does a sleeping duck, with its head tucked back into the wing feathers. I’ll leave the more ambitious shapes for another year.

I first became aware of this creative class from Bill, a talented neighbor and friend who has been romancing stones for thirteen years, and has created some impressive works of art. He owns all the sculptor’s tools that would make Michelangelo jealous. I’m still borrowing my implements from the school. The classes are skillfully taught by Terrie Mertens, a former high school art teacher and accomplished artist and sculptor, and Doug Corsini, also a noteworthy sculptor and teacher who studied domestically and abroad, including at the Vatican. His commissioned works, including bird sculptures, are scattered around the country.

I was in good hands learning the art, and carefully taught how to avoid inhaling too much stone dust, and how to protect my fingers from the hazards of grinders, saws, and chisels. They coached me into choosing my first rock. It was a large piece of whitish alabaster, one of the largest unclaimed rocks on the shelf. I didn’t realize that they charged by weight, and that the vast majority of the stone would end up as dust or gravel on the floor. Doug cut my rock in half with the band saw, one side being my future owl, and the other saved for a later duck. It took some imagination and a leap of faith to envision either.

Alabaster is a soft stone, recommended to us rookies, leaving the harder marble and the Statue of David to later. I had several photos of owl carvings in wood and stone, and chose to create a “stylized” owl, hoping that the purist birders out there would forgive any anatomic blunders. Initially I set out to imitate a Snowy Owl, given my white rock, but later decided to add a sunken face to add some interest, more like a Barn Owl. It is a hybrid owl; we artists have a license to play with Mother Nature.

The other part of the rock was destined to be a sleeping Ruddy Duck. I thought that the upright tail of this duck would add some interest to the project. But Doug warned me about making the tail too thin, and sure enough, minutes later the tail fell off. No biggie, they said. We’ll just glue it back on, and with hours of careful sanding you may never notice it.

So now, after two years, I have added burgeoning bird sculptor to the many facets of the larger universe of birding. The others include photography, travel to some scenic domestic and international hotspots, and just being outside and enjoying the exercise with birding pals. I’m not sure what my next stone project will entail. I’m considering a sculpture of our Milky Way spiral galaxy, but Terrie just rolled her eyes when I mentioned that last week. We’ll see.

Winter Birding in South Florida

February 12, 2026brighamstephen 8 Comments

When my Dad retired and moved to Florida from Upstate New York many years ago, he told me his blood was thinning and needed the Florida sun. I just laughed at that while I shoveled the snow from my Syracuse driveway. I don’t laugh anymore.

Pied-billed Grebe, *Podilymbus podiceps*

They say we have only two seasons in South Florida; a wet season between June and October when we average 54 inches of rain, and a dry season in the rest of the year while the birds and alligators seek out the residual water holes. Usually our temperatures vary little throughout the year. Not so this year. That Arctic blast that has you folks in a long deep freeze up north has even made it down to sunny Florida. Our birding excursions have required warm duds found deep in the closet; at least at sunrise. This feels like a real old-fashioned winter that we came south to avoid. You would laugh at us, however, if I told you what we considered as “cold”.

Last year when we tried to bird the hotspot, Ten Thousand Islands, in the Great Cypress Swamp, the large lake at the observation tower was completely dry and there were no water birds to be found. We were in a severe drought. But this year the water has returned and brought the birds back. It’s a relief to both them and me.

The top of the tower gives us a good opportunity to hone our flight-shot skills. You have to be on your toes with the camera ready to go, in order to catch the rapid flyovers of the Osprey, Pelicans, King Fishers, and Vultures. If you’re really lucky you’ll get a chance at a wandering Wood Stork or Roseate Spoonbill. I heard Andy and Mel firing away with their sexy new mirrorless cameras, while I was still stuck in single shot mode with my dated DSLR. I overheard them saying something about teaching an old dog new tricks.

The land-based dabbling ducks offered much easier targets. I don’t remember ever seeing so many Blue-winged Teal and Green Herons at one site. Maybe it was the brisk temperature. Mel spotted the red eye of a Black-crowned Night Heron peering out from the distant rushes. But what was that strange duck with the white neck Marlene spotted hiding in the tall grasses. It was a Northern Pintail, probably driven south by the weather, just like the rest of us snowbirds.

Black-crowned Night-Heron, *Nycticorax nycticorax*

Further down the trail we saw several stately herons and egrets wading among massive sleeping alligators. Are they that stupid? A hungry gator can make quick work of the bird if his appetite is right. Just look at the mangled corpse and white feathers floating near the shoreline. We made a real birding blunder at this stop, I regret to admit. Not all tall white wading birds down here in South Florida are Great Egrets. A better birder on the trail pointed out that the largest of the group was in fact a “Great White Heron”, a cousin to the Great Blue, just found locally. Just notice the larger bill and overall size, and the pale legs, so different than the egrets.

There is apparently some debate among the birding gurus regarding this bird. They must have too much free time on their hands. Some say the Great White is just a color morph of the Great Blue, while others claim it is a true subspecies with significant DNA differences. Without a dog in this fight, I’ll just favor the latter and stay out of the fray.

Great White Heron, *Ardea herodias occidentalis*

Leaving Ten Thousand Islands one can proceed several miles east on the Tamiami Trail to Turner Road on the left. This is a long, wide gravel road heading due north through the Great Cypress Swamp and offers miles of good birding. It’s ideal for the lazier birders among us who need an occasional break from the foot trail. I speak from experience. One can see a lot at five mph, with some stops for that special shot or a “bathroom” break. A parallel ditch sports countless waders, along with a plethora of perching Red-shouldered Hawks. After a while we were just calling out “just another hawk” and not even stopping. But keep looking and you may sight a Limpkin of even a Snail Kite.

As for warblers, you will see 50 Palms for every 5 Yellow-rumped, and maybe one or two other species if you are lucky and astute. Someone in the car, not me, called out a male American Redstart. That’s worth braking for. I finally got a visual as it hid deep in the tropical underbrush. My photo is from another day and another location.

By noon we were all shedding outer wear; it had risen into the 60s. We found a quaint human watering hole in Everglades City offering a gator burger with Cajun dressing. I stuck with the old-fashioned hamburger and fries. We counted all our species and declared it a great birding day. I’m still trying to convince my colleagues to try another Big Day in South Florida, but so far, no luck. A few years ago we did one and totaled a modest 87 species. We ought to be able to break 100 next time. I’ll keep trying.

American Redstart, *Setophaga ruticilla*

Rounding the Horn

January 15, 2026brighamstephen 18 Comments

It’s been almost a year since we took this memorable trip, but my writing has stirred many recollections of those wonderful February days down under. Truth be told, we didn’t technically round the horn, ocean to ocean, but we did enter the Drake Passage and went ashore at the famous site, enjoying that once-in-a-lifetime adventure.

My title of this posting is the title of Dallas Murphy’s great book. Its subtitle is “Being a Story of Williwaws and Windjammers, Drake, Darwin, Murdered Missionaries and Naked Natives–a Deck’s-eye View of Cape Horn”. I highly recommend it. As the subtitle implies he supplements his own adventure with the history, geology, and meteorology of this unique part of the globe.

There was no guarantee from the crew on Ventus Australis that we could go ashore at the Horn. It was weather dependent, getting us all into zodiacs and back safely again. Luckily the wind and waves were tolerable that day, barely, and we were cleared to go. I believe I was the only one in the group nursing the camera and large birding lens, but you don’t go to the end of the world everyday.

Perched high on the bluff at Cabo de Hornos is the Chilean Light and keeper’s house. A short distance away is the famous Albatross sculpture and poem commemorating the 10,000 seamen who have perished rounding the Horn.

“I am the albatross that waits for you at the end of the world.

I am the forgotten souls of dead mariners who passed Cape Horn from all the oceans of the earth.

But they did not die in the furious waves.

Today they sail on my wings toward eternity in the last crack of Antarctic winds”.

Sara Vial

From our zodiac we climbed the steep wooden steps to the top, still sporting the bulky orange life jackets, just in case a quick return to the ship was signaled. The Chilean keeper is actually a naval officer, along with his wife and two young daughters. The usual stint at this remote location is one year, but they volunteered for more, and were in their third year at the outpost. Apparently they look forward to the occasional ship, visitors, and mailbag, and obviously enjoy their spartan life. My bird sightings at the Cape itself were meager, but the two sisters displayed their art work for us, satisfying my birding urge. I bought a handful of them to remind me of that day. One wonders what their life is like there in the winter, as we were bundled up, even in their mid-summer.

Given the exposure, the vegetation at the Horn is sparse. The one bird that seemed to relish the ship’s company and my camera was the Chimango Caracara, posing for me on the walkway trail. This common bird is more crow-like than caracara-like. Its call has a mocking or laughing quality, likely poking fun at our colorful orange wardrobes.

True to form, the ship sounded its warning horn, signaling a rapidly moving storm coming from the west. We loaded into our zodiac and made it back just before the front hit; the later boats were not so lucky and got a good Cape Horn drenching. But we all survived and eventually made it to the final port of Ushuaia, Argentina, the southern-most city in the world.

We were not quite ready to go home, and reserved one more day of birding at Tierra del Fuego NP with an excellent guide, Isabel Ledesma. This beautiful park is just a short drive west from Ushuaia along the Beagle Channel. The park contains freshwater lakes and ponds, saltwater fiords reminiscent of Norway, varied bird habitats, and scenery to die for.

But we were there for the birds one last time before heading home. Isabel came through, treating us to 34 species, including eight life birds. She was especially persistent in leading us through the tangled underbrush to see the Green-backed Firecrown hummingbird, endemic to Patagonia. We waited and waited; I was ready to move on when the large hummer flew in and briefly perched on a blooming firebush. Thank you, Isabel, well done.

As you may have noticed, I’ve taken some time off from blogging. I still bird, and still love every outing and will continue to post, but have started to aim the camera and telephoto lens upward, past the birds and to the stars. My astro-photography skills and equipment have slowly progressed over these last few years. The picture below is the Seagull Nebula. You birders know that it should have been named the Crested Caracara Nebula, given the head shape, but I’ll give my fellow stargazers a pass on the ID. With both hobbies, things are still looking up.

Birding the Beagle Channel

April 4, 2025brighamstephen 4 Comments

I could almost picture a young, twenty-two year old Charles Darwin sailing through the channel, gaping at the mountains and glaciers while furiously taking notes and drawing all the strange flora and fauna he could observe. He referred to that voyage as “by far the most important event of my life”.

Our voyage through these same waters, some 200 years later was much more civilized. His Beagle was a sailing ship only 90 feet long, while our Ventus Australis, while still considered a small cruising ship, was by comparison a luxurious ride, propelled independently from the fickle winds. And that was lucky since the wind blew fiercely throughout the five days.

Sixteenth century explorers discovered three ways to pass the South American land mass, east to west. None were ideal as evidenced by shipwrecks and many lost sailors over the centuries. The Beagle Channel was the circuitous middle passage, measuring about 1300 miles long. The Strait of Magellan was several miles to the north and the Drake Passage was further south, running between Cape Horn and Antarctica.

Our embarkation was from Punta Arenas, Chile, with Ushuaia, Argentina being the final destination. The days were packed with daily zodiac rides ashore with guided, short hikes to explore the natural sights. Lectures onboard, interspersed between sumptuous meals, educated us guests about the history, geology, and wildlife of Tierra del Fuego.

Black-browed Albatross, *Thalassarche melanophris*

I believe I spent more time out of doors on the upper deck than most of the travelers. My goal was to get a perfect flight shot of the birds flying by the ship, all of which were new species for me. This was a chore, given the cold wind, the rocking ship, and the erratic birds. I could find a little shelter in the lee of the stack or pilot house where I met one other birder with the same ambition. He was a young man from Germany using a new mirrorless Nikon camera and a massive telephoto lens that put mine to shame. There was a language barrier, but that did not keep us from sharing our best shots.

Imperial Cormorants, *Leucocarbo atriceps*

The only albatross we saw was the Black-browed Albatross, a rather small member of this genus. Another large, dark pelagic bird confused us for a while until we settled on it being a Southern Giant-Petrel. A much smaller dark bird was appropriately named a Sooty Shearwater. Add to those the Kelp Gull and the Imperial and Magellanic Cormorants and you have our complete repertoire of our deck sightings.

Southern Giant-Petrel, *Macronectes giganteus*

The daily, and sometimes harrowing zodiac trips to shore usually gave us a steadier base for photography. Tucker’s Islet was my much anticipated excursion to see a penguin colony. Such a peculiar, flightless bird waddling upright over the rocks, but what wonderful swimmers. Stubby wings make great flippers. Penguins are exclusive to the Southern Hemisphere and apparently have an evolutionary link to petrels and albatrosses.

Magellanic Penguin, *Spheniscus magellanicus*

The zodiac pulled right up to the beach, but we were asked to stay onboard to protect the integrity of the large colony of Magellanic Penguins. What a great, close-up look at these birds. Even the salty guides got excited when someone spotted an unusual crested penguin on a nearby rock. It was a single Rockhopper Penguin looking like a fish out of water among the others.

Several other species on the island caught my attention. The Chilean Skua is one of those predatory seabirds that survive by chasing other birds to steal their catches, or perhaps to snatch a penguin egg from a distracted or careless parent. There were also the same two species of cormorants flying earlier, now precariously perched and nesting on the shear, guano-laced cliffs of the island.

Magellanic Cormorants, *Leucocarbo magellanicus*

One memorable afternoon our ship sailed down a narrow part of the channel called “Glacier Alley” passing one amazing glacier after another, each announced by name by the captain as the crew served cocktails and a new hors d’oeuvre for each. Nonstop beauty. We took a zodiac to the base of the large Pia Glacier and watched it “calf” icebergs, each with a tremendous splash and audible joy from us spectators. Two Ashy-headed Geese were added to my life list when they landed on a nearby rock. I snapped bird shots while the others waited for another icy birth.

Ashy-headed Geese, *Chloephaga poliocephala*

Five days on the Ventus Australis were hardly enough; I would have loved to turn right around and do it all over again, but new adventures in Ushuaia beckoned. We made several new friends on board, all on their own itineraries throughout South America. Sorry Dan, about the Spartan’s recent loss, but my team did not even make the Big Dance. This cruise also included a memorable stop at Cape Horn, one of the highlights of the whole trip, but I’ll leave that for a future post.

Birding & Trekking in Torres del Paine, Chile

March 18, 2025March 19, 2025brighamstephen 4 Comments

I got great advice when planning our trip to Patagonia. Instead of racing down all the way to Tierra del Fuego and Cape Horn, stop off at Santiago, and then go further south to the Torres del Paine National Park. And if you really want a treat, stay in the park at the Explora Lodge.

This mountainous park is famous for its scenic glaciers, blue lakes, green forests, and the massive triple granite peaks of Paine Massif. There is eye candy in every direction; what do you photograph next? Add to all this the exquisite hospitality of the five star Explora Lodge, nestled like a grounded ship on the shore of Lago Pehoe between peaks and waterfalls. There are breath-taking views from every room.

Most of our fellow guests were trekkers, but we were there primarily for the birds. That was no problem as every guide knew the local birds, as well as all the flora and fauna, and also the geologic history of the park. Each evening you would plan with a guide your jaunt for the next day, whether it be a half, or whole day, or on horseback or on foot. We elected the flatter half day treks on foot.

After leaving the summer heat of Santiago, we now began to feel the cooler changeable weather of Patagonia. Ferdinand Magellan first named this large, poorly defined region of southern Chile and Argentina as Patagonia in 1520. How he came up with this moniker is an open debate best left for another day. The western Chilean part is dominated by and Andes, Pacific fiords, lakes and glaciers, whereas the eastern Argentinian region is a drier steppe-like plain.

Rufous-collared Sparrow, *Zonotrichia capensis*

Whenever I visit a new part of the globe, I go armed with a target list of birds, compiled from eBird’s records of recent sightings in the area. My list was some 50 or 60 birds long, but three were especially desired. They were the Condor which was already ticked near Santiago, any species of Penguin that crossed our path, and the Magellanic Woodpecker.

Valentina was our guide for the half day, eight kilometer trek along a scenic river, ending at a waterfall. She noticed my large telephoto lens and correctly assumed I wanted to see birds, and proceeded to point them out as I stumbled down the narrow paths. She first heard, and later found the beautiful male Magellanic Woodpecker in a dense thicket, and a juvenile not far away. The other trekkers patiently waited while I took dozens of shots in the dim light, between the branches. I think they understood the excitement of a birder seeing such a prize.

Magellanic Woodpecker, *Campephilus magellanicus*

One day I hung around the lodge while Suzanne trekked elsewhere in the park. I found two Chilean Swallows nesting on a dock, as well as an unknown Grebe-like bird dabbling near the shore. After some discussion with the locals and visits to the Merlin photo ID site and guidebooks we decided it was a juvenile White-tufted Grebe.

After a long day of hiking the lodge offers a sauna, hot tub, massage, or drink at the bar. Then you are treated to a gourmet dinner with Chilean wines, all presented in a spacious dining room with views all around. It was a time to meet fellow travelers from all over the world including England, India, Israel, and the U.S. Our only difficulty was leaving it all after four short days.

But there are always new adventures just down the road. Even the five hour trip from the lodge to Punta Arenas was fascinating as we passed from mountainous Patagonia into the steppes. Birding by car I saw my first Upland Goose with hundreds more to come later. Our driver was kind enough to pull over for a perching Buzzard-Eagle, and later for a feeding Rhea and Guanacos right along the road. Those flightless Ostrich-like Rheas are an interesting bird.

Did Darwin’s Rheas evolve from flightless dinosaurs, or did they evolve from flying dinosaurs or birds and later “give up” on flight as a means of locomotion? Even though flightless, they are very fast a foot. The species has perfected a communal lifestyle with both males and females seeking multiple sexual partners every season. The males build the nests, incubate the eggs, and feed the chicks, while the female satisfies her urges elsewhere. The aggrieved male often finds a subservient male to take over his duties so he can join in the fun. The Rhea are native to Patagonia, but small flocks have turned up in Europe, probably the offspring of escaped pets.

The Black-chested Buzzard-Eagle is neither a buzzard nor an eagle, but rather a short-tailed hawk, closely related to other Buteo hawks. It’s fairly widespread in South America, but a new bird for me, nicely posed atop the pole for my upward shot.

Black-chested Buzzard-Eagle, *Geranoaetus melanoleucus*

I must take a moment to give a hearty shout-out to Swoop, the company in the UK that specializes in Patagonian vacations and arranged our entire South American excursion from Miami to Cape Horn and back. They set up every hotel and airport transfer which were flawlessly executed, recommended and arranged every hotel and air reservation, found cultural and bird guides in Santiago and Ushuaia, and booked our next leg of the trip through the Beagle Channel on the small ship, Ventus Australis. Our Swoop agents, Danny and Carys were simply superb. https://www.swoop-patagonia.com/

The Andean Condor & Friends

March 8, 2025brighamstephen 10 Comments

This February there were new worlds for us to explore in our southern hemisphere. Santiago, Chile and the surrounding mountains was our first stop on this adventure. The large, teeming city, abbreviated by locals as STGO, is nestled in a large valley between the coastal range to the west and the towering Andes to the east. Both are capped with snow and glaciers, even in the summer. This is arid country, reminiscent of Arizona and New Mexico.

When we planned this layover in STGO I decided to hire a local bird guide. The question was whether to be guided to the local urban parks, or head to the mountains with the hope of seeing an Andean Condor and other mountain-loving birds. The answer was a no brainer. I could poke around the local parks myself, but Suzanne and I sought the higher elevations.

But first we took an unguided jaunt in the park near our hotel, along an almost dry riverbed fed by melting glaciers, miles away. I should have recognized the racquet of the birds. Of course, these were Monk Parakeets that have colonized yet another urban garden. On a distant lawn there was a bird having all the GISS (general impression, size & shape) of the American Robin, but without the ruddy breast. It was the Austral Thrush, in the same Turdus genus of our Robin. Add to those the Earred Dove and Chilean Mockingbird and we had a good start at seeing new birds from a new land.

I’ve always had great luck with international guides and this time was no exception. Rodrigo Reyes and his driver Carlos picked us up at the crack of dawn and we proceeded upwards on uncountable switchbacks, the scenery become better with every turn. I asked Rodrigo to be kind on our 70+ year-old legs and lungs more use to the 7 foot elevations of Florida and Maryland than to these Andes. He obliged with short walks in the high plateaus which did reveal many new species.

Cordilleran Canastero, *Canastero chico*

There were no trees here at 8 to 10,000 feet, just some low shrubs, parched grasses, and scattered boulders giving some protection for the songbirds. Rodrigo pointed out a surprising number of these scurrying for cover as we left the car for short excursions. They included several species of Sierra-Finches, Canasteros, and Ground-Tyrants, as well as a Rufous-banded Miner and a Black-faced Ibis, among others. We saw 25 species that day, almost all new for us.

Black-winged Ground Dove, *Metriopelia melanoptera*

At one point we spotted a Variable Hawk on a power pole as we sped by. Carlos was kind enough to find a slightly wider spot in the road, without driving off the cliff, allowing me to sneak up on it on foot for a closer shot. It was obviously waiting for one of those songbirds to let down its guard for a moment, giving him a tasty morsel.

But our main destination was the top of the mountain to see Condors. At the top there was a deserted base camp for a ski resort, with empty hotels and parking lot since it was summer in Chile. We birders and some amazing cyclists who had pedaled all the way to the summit, were the only humans in sight. But more importantly, there were numerous perching and soaring Condors enjoying the relative solitude of the location.

This was perfect for me. Lugging the heavy camera and lens the thousands of miles was worthwhile. I took countless flight shots, some even from above the birds as they soared in the mountain updrafts. The Andean Condor is a New World vulture only found along the Pacific coast of South America. Its wing span can be as large as 10 1/2 feet, making it one of the largest flying birds in the world. Despite this, it has only a small sternum for the attachment of flight muscles. Some say this is because it is primarily a soaring bird, rarely flapping its wings except for take-offs and landings.

The bird is a scavenger, feeding on the dead carcasses of large animals such as deer and cows. It nests on secluded, high rocky ledges, and is one of the most long-lived of all birds. Some reach my ripe age of 70+ years. The Andean Condor is revered by the South Americans and is the national bird of Chile, Argentina, Bolivia, Columbia, Ecuador, and Peru. It has been depicted in Andean art dating back to 2500 BC. Charles Darwin contemplated the flight of these giants, just as Suzanne and I did, almost 100 years later, thanks to the guiding of Rodrigo and the driving of Carlos. Our next stop was the Torres del Paine National Park, 1200 miles further south.

Musical Birding in 2025

January 23, 2025brighamstephen 10 Comments

I can’t help trying to combine two enjoyable avocations that have consumed much of my retirement. They are birding and music. Speaking of which, it was music to my ears when Mel called to announce a new birding destination for us in Southwest Florida. Heading inland on Bonita Beach Road, just at the edge of the eastward-creeping development, there is a dirt road leading to a large, preserved wetlands called Flint Pen Strand. We’ve added it to our repertoire of great birding sites in this region.

We arrived with just a hint of early dawn light. I was still humming Moon River when I our first bird, a Great Blue Heron made a solo flyover. There would be many repeats from this species. Sunrise followed, not over the Grand Canyon as beautifully composed by Grofe, but over our very flat swamp.

Our recognition of birdsong has been measurably improved by Merlin, the Cornell app that hears and identifies the birds, even before they are seen. Sometimes they are never seen, hence the dilemma of whether to report a “sighting”. I heard, but did not see, a Least Bittern in the reed section; actually a duet of bitterns crooning to each other. I reported them since Merlin confirmed the ID.

Andy found Nate King Fisher early on. We chased him for a while to get a better shot without much luck. Mel was sharp and found Gladys Night Heron and the Peeps in the high grass, while I photographed a choir of Blue-winged Teal flying over in perfect unison. The percussion section chimed in with the staccato beat of a Red-bellied Woodpecker, but a Barred Owl calling in the distance seemed only interested in who was doing the cooking.

It was a cloudy day. Raindrops Kept Falling on Our Heads, but “crying’s not for me, cause I’m never going to stop the rain by complaining, because I’m free. Nothing’s worrying me”. Indeed, the rain didn’t deter us from seeing 40 some species that day. The trio of the day was Rosie and the Spoonbills, dressed in their finest pink and putting on quite a show, but Sandy and the Cranes was an estimable act as well.

eBird, as you know, wants to know how many birds of each species you saw. There was a huge flock of Tree Swallows over the swamp. Andy was thinking 500, but I guessed it was more like 5000. We normally harmonious birders don’t always sing the same song. With so many it was very difficult to count and impossible to take an adequate photo. Plus, their flight was a scattered and disorganized symphony, as Gustav Mahler might compose.

The three of us recently heard the renowned Renee Fleming in concert in Naples. Her wonderful rendition of Caro Mio Ben brought tears to my eyes. What a voice! Even the Warbling Vireo or Northern Mockingbird cannot match that performance, but that won’t stop them from trying. Compare them to the herons who can only make an atonic croak from somewhere in the bass clef, much like many of us humans. It’s all about the structure of the larynx. Renee has it and the wading birds do not.

All in all, it was a suite day of birding, enjoying the music in a new outdoor concert hall with great birding colleagues. We may not be sharp, but we are natural musical birders. We left Flint Pen with no egrets. I’m sure we’ll return for an encore performance. It will be a great finale. Sorry.

The Hudsonian Godwit

September 7, 2024September 7, 2024brighamstephen 6 Comments

Hudsonian Godwit, *Limosa haemastica* (J.J. Audubon)

You have to have a good reason to visit the Blackwater NWR on the Eastern Shore of the Chesapeake Bay in the summer. Oh, the tidewater scenery is spectacular, but so are the bugs. I doused myself with bug spray with far too much vigor; the fumes were overwhelming in the closed car. The horseflies were the size of a Buick, as the saying goes, and attacked my slow-moving vehicle as if it were a horse. They are not very bright.

But my reason for the visit was a potential life bird. eBird had been reporting a Hudsonian Godwit in a specific pond for several days, feeding with the Yellowlegs and other shorebirds. I finally had a chance to break away from real life and drive forty miles for a look.

The Godwit is a long distance migrator that breeds on the remote shores of Hudson Bay in Canada and winters thousands of miles away in southern South America. Many make the entire trip without stopping, but this bird, luckily for me, decided to layover for a few days and enjoy the marsh life at Blackwater.

Greater Yellowlegs, *Tringa melanoleuca*

When I drove into the preserve the absence of other cars and birders was striking. It was the bugs, I’m sure. I was forced to keep the windows rolled up tight. That gave me a good opportunity to study the underside anatomy of the horsefly as countless of the buggers landed on my windshield. I tried to get a photo of them but the telephoto lens was too long. There was, however, a good look at a Bald Eagle through the moon roof, and also views of Bluebirds, Great Blue Herons, Kingfishers, and a Downy Woodpecker, but photography through the glass was sub optimal.

Wildlife Drive eventually leaves the woods and proceeds onto a dike with open water to the left and brackish marsh ponds to the right. Here, the wind swept the bugs away and finally I could open the windows, and even get out and set up the scope.

There was another birder on the dike, Rich, from the other side of the Bay, and also seeking the same Godwit. He actually was living my dream, in the midst of a “Big Year”, hoping to see 500+ birds in the lower 48 states in 2024. According to the ABA there are 993 species of birds possible in these states. That number includes breeding birds, regular visitors, and accidentals.

We exchanged the usual birder pleasantries and shared opinions of the best birding sites appropriate for a Big Year. He had already checked out many of them and had some pelagic trips still on his docket. I’m still hoping for a Big Day in southern Florida next winter, but someday may attempt a scaled down version of the yearlong conquest.

But neither of us had seen the Godwit yet. Rich left and set up his scope further down the dike when I noticed him waving to me in a manner clearly indicating success. Sure enough, there was the bird in the same pond, just as advertised. It always amazes me that this seems to occur more times than not when chasing a lifer. Multiple shots later we moved on, the Big Year one bird closer to his goal, and one more lifer tick for me.

My Godwit picture suffers due to distance, but luckily Audubon got off a good “shot” and published his picture above in his famous “Birds of America”. I figured that the name “Godwit” must refer to some famous birder, but actually the name comes from Old English, meaning good creature.

Back home I shared my success with my spouse, but she was more interested in keeping me out of the house due to the bug spray stench. In closing I’ll share one more astro-photo I recently took. It has some relevance to a birding blog and this story about Blackwater, one of the leading Bald Eagle haunts on the East Coast.

This is the Eagle Nebula in the constellation Serpens, first seen by telescope in 1745 and made famous recently by an exquisite photo from the Hubble Telescope. This emission nebula is in our galaxy, but still 5700 light years away. The photons from it that hit my lens last week left the nebula when civilizations on Earth were just developing in the Mesopotamia / Fertile Crescent region of the Middle East. My photo is 2 1/2 hours of exposure. Hope you can make out the outline of the Eagle. There is no Godwit Nebula yet, but one never knows what the further reaches of our universe might reveal.

Not-a-Bird

July 26, 2024brighamstephen 2 Comments

Ruby-throated Hummingbird, *Archilochus colubris*

A bird-shaped leaf, a rock, a pine cone; we’ve all been temporarily fooled and embarrassed by our premature identification of a bird. But when the object flies, hovers with rapidly beating wings, and has a long proboscis sucking nectar from a blossom, but is not a hummingbird, the mistaken identity is forgivable. The photo below is by Charles Sharp (www.sharpphotography.co.uk) and is a great shot of one of these colorful not-a-birds.

Hummingbird hawk moth, *Macroglossum stellatarum*

We were enjoying a hot, pool-side afternoon with a wonderful family from Denmark, watching a Ruby-throated Hummingbird come and go for nourishment at the feeder. I started expounding about these New World birds thinking they were likely new to my European friends. Instead, Ben told me that Italy was loaded with them throughout the gardens of Tuscany. He had seen them himself. Taken aback, I wondered if they might have been vagrants. No, there were too many for that. Perhaps the Trochilidae family of birds had moved to Tuscany as we all have dreamed of doing.

White-necked Jacobin, *Florisuga mellivora*

A Google search restored the order of the universe once again. The Tuscan look-alike was a sphinx or hawk moth, a member of the Sphingidae family of moths and the Insecta class of animals. Ben, take heart; these creatures have been confusing people for years. This large family of moths contains 1450 species scattered world-wide, but are most common in the tropics. Their amazing hovering capability has evolved in only four groups of animals: hummingbirds, some bats, hoverflies, and the moths.

These four animal families, widely separated on the evolutionary tree, have “solved” the problem of hovering flight independently with some slight variations. The moths are scaly and featherless and have a prominent antenna. This organ acts as a gyroscope guiding the moth’s aerial maneuvers. I think the hummers depend on their cerebellum for this.

Hovering flight, and animal flight in any form, are great examples of convergent evolution. It’s the development of a similar anatomical feature or behavior within widely separated species which have no common ancestor. Hummingbirds and Hawk Moths have each “conquered” hovering flight and nectar extraction from a different starting point, but have met at the same flower. Quite remarkable.

I’ve had a couple other hummingbird encounters this summer. It’s been very hot and dry, with no measurable rain for two months. I left the garage door open one night for circulation and found a dead hummingbird there the next morning, hanging upside down with a death grip on a narrow shelf. I didn’t have tools small enough to perform an autopsy, but suspect its demise was heat or thirst related. It illustrated once again that the passerines’ feet grip the perch when the muscles are relaxed, and must be flexed to release the grip and fly away. This is great for the sleeping bird, and even persists in death.

Green-crowned Brilliant, *Heliodoxa jacula*

I was watering newly planted shrubs last week, trying to keep them alive in the drought when a hummingbird flew up and hovered close to my face. If I could read bird lips I suspect it was asking permission to drink and cool off in my spray. I agreed, and it hovered in the spray for minutes, leaving and returning several times. It was a first for me and probably for the bird as well. I’ve often said that one can bird while doing just about anything. Add watering to that list.

Rough Start

June 25, 2024brighamstephen 8 Comments

We were just minding our own business, reading in the Adirondack chairs under the welcome shade of the Crape Mrytles. It was almost time for sunset and relief from the blistering heat. The wind was strong and from the south and may have contributed to the following saga. A small downy bird suddenly plopped upon the arm of my very chair, looked up at me and must have said, “oh shit.” I don’t know if it was pushed or blown from its nest, but clearly it was not ready for flight. After a startled gasp from Suzanne, I did what any birder would do; try to determine the species of the observed bird. When I failed at that, I carefully picked it up and looked for a flat branch in its tree of origin; no nest was visible. We didn’t hold much hope for its survival.

When we returned to Maryland from Florida this spring we noticed a subtle change in our patch. Eastern Kingbirds seemed more abundant and clearly had displaced the Northern Mockingbirds as the yard’s enforcers. They spend a good part of their day chasing away the much larger crows, grackles, and even the Osprey, but seem to tolerate the doves, finches, and hummingbirds. Tyrannus tyrannus is an apt name for this aggressive bird. When really riled you may see a kingly patch of feathers on its crown.

Eastern Kingbirds are long distant migrators from the tropics of South America, settling into our patch even before we snowbirds have arrived. They have a grating high-pitched squeaky voice and given the exciting cry from two adults that evening, we surmised the urchin bird belonged to them. The young bird didn’t stay on its branch long before a gust of wind blew it down into the crotch of the tree, about a foot above the ground. I doubted it would survive the night, given the resident red fox, black snake, and raccoon. Indeed, the next morning it was just a motionless bundle of feathers; oh well, we tried.

But wait! I went out again to confirm the demise, but the bird was gone. The parent kingbirds acted like avian geiger counters, the squeaks crescendoing as I searched for their chick. They led me to a nearby bush of flowering Nepeta where I saw the living, but dazed-looking fledgling. I grabbed a photo just before it feebly fluttered upward and was carried by a strong gust downwind to the roof of my fortuitously placed feeder. There, it desperately hung on for several hours.

Suzanne and I spent the rest of the day watching these parents protecting and feeding their offspring, who clearly had ventured from home far too early. One parent would perch nearby as a protector, chasing away prying birds, while the other went searching for bugs. They seemed to alternate these chores as tireless parents, hovering and worrying. It brings back memories, doesn’t it? As we watched, another wind blew the frail chick off balance, landing it on the nearby wire of our party lights. That turned out to be a less precarious perch.

The muscles controlling a bird’s feet and claws contract and clench a perch while in a relaxed state. The bird must actively flex the muscles to release the grip. This served our young bird well for the rest of the day. We wondered about the nest. Did the bird have siblings? These birds usually lay 3-4 eggs, but our parents seemed totally occupied with this single hatchling. Perhaps it was the only survivor of the brood and the parents wanted to pass on at least one offspring to the next generation.

The little bird seemed to be getting stronger. I observed it preening, slowly removing the down and smoothing out the more adult flight feathers. It also got more rambunctious, stumbling along the high wire with no net, turning around and even fluttering its wings. By noon, the parents seemed to stop bringing bugs to the bird. Were they finally worn out, or was this a strategy to entice the bird to try its wings? My anthropomorphic ears heard the mother, perched on a nearby wire, pleading for it to fly to her. She was ignored.

Hot wind, no more food or water, and another approaching sunset. How long could this last? Twenty-four hours had passed since we met face to face on the Adirondack chair. The parents must have been on break while we watched from the sunroom, when suddenly the bird cast itself upward and awkwardly fluttered 50 feet to the stone wall. It stayed there, exposed, too briefly for me to grab my camera before it made another short flight into a dense magnolia tree. There we saw its wings beating proudly in the lee of the tree when its parents returned and found their chick. Forgive my anthropomorphism again. What a joyful celebration they must have had after a most difficult and rough start.

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