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5 December 2014. Oakville ON.  If you’re looking for the perfect Christmas present for the birder in your life, you might want to consider a field trip to a sewage treatment plant; he or she will surely love it! These past two days, I’ve spent a couple of morning hours at a treatment plant not far from home; it has a lot going for it really: free parking, out of the wind and crowds are small.

I should probably explain. It’s not that birders really like the sewage treatment plant itself, it’s the unusual and unexpected birds that hang around there that make them special. The ponds of warmish, biological froth generate lots of flies and mosquitoey things which are perfect for small insectivorous birds. Apparently some birds on the fall migratory trek are seduced by this man-made warmth and food and, ignoring their instincts (which would be telling them they’ve got another two thousand kilometers to go) decide to hang around. If their gamble pays off they will have a head start next spring and could reach and claim prime breeding sites ahead of anyone else. But chances are that sooner or later the winter will bite really hard, the insect life will dwindle to nothingness and the birds will perish; it’s a gamble, maybe even a microcosm of evolutionary effort. The only probable winners are the birders who hold their noses and prowl the perimeter on the lookout for special birds; I was one of them.

I’d heard there were Winter Wrens, Golden-crowned and Ruby-crowned Kinglets and several warbler species to be found. I was lucky to see many of them and more besides; the best in many ways was a Northern Parula. Parulas are always breathtakingly beautiful, today’s bird certainly was. They can be devilishly difficult to photograph because they rarely stay still, usually hang around well above eye level and seem to bury themselves deep in the overhead foliage; today’s bird actually did quite the opposite and although it was hunting for food, it well, judge for yourself…

(The parula is in a gallery visible only on the website, not if you’re reading this as an email.) An Orange-crowned Warbler, a much overlooked and rarely encountered species was there too, as were a couple of Yellow-rumped Warblers, a Tennessee and a Wilson’s Warbler, all marvelous birds at any time.

 

2 December 2014. I have a favourite wooded valley, I’ve mentioned it many times before, most recently a couple of weeks ago in connection with my enjoyment of Black-capped Chickadees. The thing is, it’s close to home, sheltered from the worst of winter winds, full of birds and just a good place to walk around.

So many walkers scatter seed along the trails that you can easily watch birds close up; anyone can take good photos of many perennially popular species like Black-capped Chickadees, Northern Cardinals and Blue Jays. I spent a couple of hours there today and enjoyed watching those many always-expected birds and a few other common species like American Tree Sparrow, Belted Kingfisher and American Goldfinches. A solitary but wary Golden Crowned Kinglet came close and a couple of Purple Finches lingered for a moment.

But perhaps one of the best moments came when a hungry Red-bellied Woodpecker showed off its red belly and allowed me to get a couple of illustrative shots.

The question is frequently asked why the Red-bellied Woodpecker is so named when clearly it has a red head, not a red belly. I guess there’s a two-part answer: Firstly, the thoroughly well named Red-headed Woodpecker already has the name; and secondly,the Red-bellied actually does have a reddish belly — even though you can hardly ever see it. I suspect some nineteenth century biologist who was holding a museum specimen belly-up in his hand, originally gave it the name. Still, it’s not the best choice, surely someone in that arcane corner of ornithology that dishes out names, can come up with something less misleading.

Downloading my morning’s photos I realized how the morning’s Blue Jays, Northern Cardinals and Red-bellied Woodpeckers discredit my earlier gripe about the lack of colour in this December world. It would be a bit much to post all of the day’s photos here, the ones above are quite enough. But if you’d enjoy more of today’s full colour, eye-popping birds in reds and blues, follow this link to another site, it’s where I sometimes post photo collections. Feel free to browse around it.

This post contains six photos in a gallery visible only on the website, not if you’re reading this as an email.

30 November 2014. On a mild, yet monochromatic, day I walked various sometimes-birdy stretches of the perimeter of the large industrial harbour that dominates our local geography. It was warm enough but, the bright orange berries of Bittersweet notwithstanding, I was quite conscious of how much natural colour had drained away. It was, as I noted above, a monochromatic day.

Interestingly, the few bird species I made note of were low on colour too. To wit: Several Horned Grebes in their winter greys and whites instead of summer gold and chestnut; A Northern Mockingbird, always pearly grey; A handful of Hooded Mergansers, the young ones in dusky brownish grey and the handsome adult males in black and white; And a young Common Loon, so people-shy that it seemed reluctant to admit to any buoyancy, showing only its mottled grey brown back.

A howling west wind, whipping up whitecaps, kept a windsurfer happy and I watched him for a while. I wondered about the efficacy of his dry-suit, the cold on his exposed hands and face and the advisability of spending any time whatsoever doused in the waters of this famously polluted industrial harbour. As I turned to leave, I noticed a Rough-legged Hawk high overhead making its way efficiently against the wind. At first I thought I was a Northern Harrier because it was so strikingly long-winged. But through binoculars I could see the diagnostic black belly and under-wing patches that mark a Rough-legged Hawk. I suspect the effort and dynamics of flying into the wind accentuated the relative long-winged-ness of this species, a characteristic that gives them a rather languid, floppy appearance when hunting low over winter fields.

I was glad of this Rough-legged Hawk for adding some metaphorical colour to the day even though splotches of black had been the keys to my identification of it.

28 November 2014.  As October wears on and the birding just keeps on going, I invariably make a mental note that this winter I’ll be hardier, I’ll dress for the weather (whatever it may be) and I’ll be out there keeping active and birding. The thought that there will be many fewer birds doesn’t matter, it’ll be fine. Then the first bite of winter arrives and my resolve fades.

Today, after a morning of domestic errands, I faced a choice: Take a long walk sheltered from the icy wind and hope for some interesting lingering migrants, or head home for a hot lunch? I opted for lunch, but a bit of internal nagging directed me to make a few diversions along the lakeshore, just in case. It was hardly vigorous exercise but it turned out to be worthwhile.

My first stop was a marina that attracts lots of waterfowl. The inlets seemed to be choked with Mallards and a scattering of American Coots and Lesser Scaup. Then the anxious retreat of something smaller and rounder caught my eye, so I made my way to a better vantage point; and there I was able to watch and eventually photograph this Pied-billed Grebe.

I was kind of enchanted because Pied-billed Grebes are rather enigmatic birds: they’re grebes, which should mean they have a certain subtle presence about them; but they don’t, they’re more chicken-like. When it comes to breeding season, when that stubby little bill turns whitish with a black band around it, (hence the name) Pied-billed Grebes hold their own; dowdy looking though they may be, they can howl like a banshee from within the obscure corners of cattail marshes. If you didn’t know what you were hearing, the territorial wails of a Pied-billed Grebe would stop you in your tracks. Cool birds.

Nearly home, I parked for a moment to get a better look at rafts of small ducks bobbing just offshore; they turned out to be Ruddy Ducks. I wouldn’t go so far as to say they’re unduck-like, but that little stick-up tail does set them apart, in much the same way Pied-billed Grebes don’t quite fit the mould. Ruddy Ducks are part of a group called Stifftails, a collective name for any of several small, round ducks with short wings and long spiky tail feathers. The Ruddy Duck is the only North American member of the group (ignoring questionable sub-species); there are others (but not many) in South America, Europe and Africa.

At one time, our Ruddy Duck was seen as a valuable and ornamental addition to various wildlife parks in Europe. Once settled in, it began breeding furiously with its European cousin, the White-headed Duck, and in no time hybrids started to dominate the landscape and the pure White-headed Duck was in danger of genetic extinction. Culling the Ruddy Ducks, and presumably any obvious hybrids, and leaving Europe for White-headed Ducks has solved the problem. I recall from my trip to Spain in September that the sight of a White-headed Duck quite excited my tour group leader; they had indeed become nearly extinct. So we get to keep and admire our Ruddy Ducks and there they were today all bobbing around, heads tucked in apparently asleep.

20 November 2014.  This was an unusually wintery day (and week) for mid November; but not without precedent I’m sure.  It was very much more like January, with permanent-looking snow on the ground and a wickedly cold wind that blew a couple of  Red-tailed Hawks around like old newspaper pages.

This wallop of cold came, as a river of frigidity, straight from the Arctic. It got started a couple of days ago and really picked up steam yesterday. Bitter winds swept the length of Lake Erie absorbing buckets of relatively warm moisture and then dropped it as snow on the hapless City of Buffalo; two metres of snow is a lot – even for winter-savvy Buffalo.

Bundled up in clothes that haven’t been out for nine months, I walked up through one of my favourite sheltered valleys. I had hoped for some unusual birds trying to make it through this hostility. Well, there were no strangers but our resident birds were happy to scavenge for handouts. This valley is part of semi-public lands (technically private, but open to the public as long as they stay on trails). It attracts many walkers and bird-feeders, particularly families on weekends.  The resident Black-capped Chickadees and White-breasted Nuthatches have become quite tame and will feed from an outstretched hand. Red-bellied Woodpeckers, Blue Jays and Northern Cardinals are almost as bold; you can imagine how appealing this is to families with young children.

All of these birds were there, all of them hungry and engaging. But by far the most abundant were Black-capped Chickadees. Whenever I stopped to look around, they’d fly in and sometimes land on my hands for no apparent reason (other than the reasonable hope that I was offering food). I don’t have any idea how many Black-capped Chickadees live in this valley; it’s a lot, probably too many. Nor do I know how many of them are year-round residents or how many just come for the lean months.

Knowing, as we do, that birds migrate seasonally in pursuit of accessible food or breeding territory, it’s not hard to imagine that Black-capped Chickadees from miles around have always sought wintering spots like this valley for shelter and food. And this particular retreat with its superabundance of food well, it’s cute, but I think a touch unhealthy; too many birds of one species in one place.

Heading home, I stopped to scan the harbour waters, just in case. As I admired a group of snoozing Trumpeter Swans and a distant pair of Tundra Swans, a vigorous snow squall blew in drawing a grey curtain across the waters, coating my binoculars and sending me back to the warmth of my car and shortly thereafter, home. Nice for me, but no easier for wildlife.