The Big Day

This is the third in a three-part series of posts about spring bird migration season, 2013. For the overall season summary click here, and for the second post about warblers, click here. I promise…no more bird posts for a while.

Unlike a lot of folk who saunter out to watch birds on a regular basis, I am not a retiree[i] , so my time in the field is often limited to brief stints on weekends, and stolen hours on workday lunches.  I’ve never taken a long distance trip solely for avifauna[ii] or had the luxury of devoting weeks to exploring an area.  

However, with fatherhood looming with all of its requisite duties and obligations in tow, I knew that this migration season would be one of the last in which I would have a chance to spend liberally of my time. With the season drawing rapidly to a close, I decided a last hurrah was in order, and aimed to devote an entire day[iii] to a long excursion around the Coast. I’ve never contemplated doing a “Big Year”, in which one rushes to and from to check as many birds off a list as they can in a year. However, I did like the idea of a Big Day focused on simply exploring as much as I could in as many places and seeing as much as I could practically hunt down.  I decided to mirror a similar trip I’d taken in coastal lands the year before and make a grand circumnavigation of Galveston Bay.

It's awesome when your intended route for a day can be seen from space.

To the Coast

To be down on the Coast at sunrise, I heaved my weary self out of bed at a dark and bleary 3:30 AM.  Dragging on some clothes in the dark, I bid goodbye to my wife and proto-child, received a mumbled response in return that was likely something along the lines of “what..the hell…is wrong…with you…”, grabbed my gear, and set off[iv].

I flushed up my first bird of the day, an incredulous Common Nighthawk, along the road as I left my neighborhood and cruised on down to Galveston[v]. The 6:00 AM ferry to Bolivar Peninsula that morning was buffeted by cold winds, so I didn’t get a chance to spend much time on deck as I usually do. Galveston and Bolivar form the southern arms[vi] of Galveston Bay, so the ferry ride is a short one across the opening.  The usual mix of pelicans, gulls and terns wheeled around the ferry, but it was too dark to note much else. Still, there’s nothing like the sight of sunrise over the endless horizon of the Gulf.

Ferry to Bolivar, Dawn over the Gulf, Birds and Morning Sky Abstract, Morning star

Bolivar Peninsula

Bolivar itself is a mishmash of high end development, utter ruin, and coastal scrubland (I wrote about it and its trials and tribulations during Hurricane Ike here.) However, its assorted habitats are perfect for a variety of birdlife. At the mouth of the bay, a 5 kilometer jetty strikes out deep into the Gulf to prevent sediment from closing the Bay opening. It creates behind it mudflats, lagoons, and beaches that are great habitat for wildlife. The jetty was my first Bolivar stop, still wreathed in the blueblack cold of daybreak. The sun had just begun to burn its way through the containing line of the horizon, turning the thin sheen of water on the mudflats into molten gold. Identification of anything silhouetted by that inferno was near impossible, so I had the rare opportunity to sit back and enjoy the scenery as a whole on a bird trip.

Bolivar Peninsula

Daybreak over Bolivar Flats, Flocks at Dawn, Sea of Gold, Sunrise Video, Sunrise Panoramic

Audubon maintains the massive tract of mudflats and beachland behind the jetty as a shorebird sanctuary, and it is aptly named. The shallow flats and sandbars support a teeming multitude of sandpipers and plovers, as well as larger wading birds. Unlike most beaches in the area, driving on the beach within the Sanctuary is not permitted, so one gets the rare treat of a beachscape undisturbed but by tide and the occasional hiker. I drove down the shore to the sanctuary, and then made my way out to a sandbar and ate breakfast as the sun rose over the Gulf and curious birds skittered around me.  In the early light, the Flats looked like a living, undulating thing from the motion of the thousands of peeps running this way and that.

Semiplamated Plover in Ripples, Shorebirds, Willet

A Peregrine Falcon coursed over the grassy marsh, and a small circle of Pelicans held court on a high spot in the mudflats, surrounded by a coterie of thousands of assorted shorebirds circling around them in a great swathe. Large flocks of Black Skimmers lifted up on my approach, gliding past and around me almost silently despite the size of their group.

Kingdom of the Pelicans, Black Skimmers in Flight, Sandwich terns, Short-billed Dowitchers, Black-necked Stilt

The sun rising in the sky meant time was running short for the morning, so I picked my way back along the dune line of the beach to my car and set out down the Peninsula’s length.

Wilson’s Plover on the Dunes, Uncommon Morninghawk, Ripples in the Sandbar

 However, a kolache[vii] shop along the way convinced me that my healthy breakfast on the beach, though beautiful in scenery, was meager in road-trippy goodness. I allowed myself to be waylaid briefly for some additional Texas fare.

Yum.

I popped by various other points on the Peninsula, searching its back bays and interior fields and wetlands, but found only ruined foundations, abandoned boats, and trash. At Rollover Pass, where the Peninsula is sundered from the mainland, birds were scarce. I did score a “lifer”, the comically designed American Oystercatcher. Early fisherman had scared most of the rest of the flocks off, and my excitement at a new species was tempered somewhat by a reluctant but necessary encounter with perhaps the most ruinous, festering port-a-potty known to man[viii].  Not wanting to waste anymore precious morning light/time, I booked on down the Peninsula to High Island.

American Oystercatchers are from the Platypus school of design

High Island

High Island is a Mecca[ix] of sorts for the birdwatching community during migration. It’s essentially a town built on a salt dome, making it the highest[x] point on the coast.  What makes it of any note is its small stands of forest are the only game in town for birds who have just  flown day and night over the Gulf.  Migrant drop out here to rest and refuel, especially when flying into northerly headwinds. Nothing causes more excitement during migration season than the potential for one of these “fallouts”, and conditions were right that morning[xi]. Because of this geographical serendipity, Houston Audubon maintains a series of wooded sanctuaries around the town[xii].  My first stop was at Boy Scout Woods, a small forested tract that is a first stopover for many migrants.

High Island. The outer road encircling the town shows a rough outline of the salt dome.

There were dozens of birders at BSW, and I think I brought the average age down by a decade or two. One of the usual activities at these locations is to sit (here on bleachers) and wait patiently for birds to come to a water feature 50 feet away. Not my cup of tea. I roved around for a while, catching some great birds in a nearby stand of bottlebrush. The word was going around that there were a great number of birds at Smith Oaks, the largest of the High Island Sanctuaries, so off I went.

High Island Landscape, Boy Scout Woods, Bottlebrush, Western Tanager

 In retrospect I should have probably gone straight there in the morning, but it was still pretty active when I got there. As soon as I got out of my car, the species list for the day started growing exponentially. Several older birdwatchers were camped out at a seeming nondescript spot between woods and lake. As I was talking with them, a flurry of warblers swarmed around me. The lingering winds from the fallout conditions had driven a large multitude of the birds to the shoreline of this small lake and adjacent woods, creating and ideal migrant trap. I spent the next hour or so hardly moving as species after species flitted by, past, or onto me in a great swarm.  While I was there, I realized my life species count was 349…1 short of my original goal of 350. As I sat there in swarms of more common birds, a female Cerulean Warbler, my long time nemesis[xiii], popped out from the underbrush and posed briefly for picture. Number 350, check.

Smith Oaks, Oaks Path, Cerulean Warbler (f), Blackburnian Warbler (f), Black-and-White Warbler, Chestnut-sided Warbler, Vireo

Unlike other trips, the winds kept things fairly cool and mosquito-free…an almost unheard of phenomenon in the tropical sauna that is usually the Upper Texas Gulf Coast in May. The paths were practically dripping with warblers, vireos, and other migrants. I walked through the wetlands, and majestic old oak mottes of the sanctuary and took a quick swing by the rookery. Surrounded by a manmade lake, a series of small islands supports a massive rookery area at Smith Oaks, with a constant ear-shattering roar of Egrets, Herons, Spoonbills, and other colonial birds conglomerated over a massive bramble of nests and breeding grounds. Even more surreal is the underlying bass laid down by cormorants, croaking like Tuban throat-singers. While the migrants drive the crowds to High Island, the rookery spectacle is what always impresses me the most.

Roseate Spoonbill, Egret Chicks, Snowy Egret, Rookery Video

The rest of the day dissolved into continuous hiking and exploration of Smith Oaks, and a late afternoon flurry of warblers. I reluctantly left the Sanctuary a little after 4 PM. Of the 38 or so warblers one could potentially see in a season on the UTC, I had found at Smith Oaks 26 in one day, in one place[xiv].  

Canada Warbler, Magnolia Warbler, Golden-winged Warbler, Tennessee Warbler, Black-and-white Warbler Video

Anahuac

On the return portion of my loop around Galveston Bay, I stopped by the decidedly different terrain of Anahuac National Wildlife Refuge. Anahuac is a great big sea of flat. Tall marsh grasses enclosed only by levee roads with almost no trees anywhere. It’s a place of alligators and old oil drilling sites, but not much else except a relatively abundant diversity of marsh birds[xv]. The light was fading a bit so I took a couple quick turns around the main basins, but didn’t turn up much more than a couple annual looks at some coastal species. Still, the different habitat added several more species on the day, even if they weren’t terribly exciting.

 

Flatlands, All Along the Watch Tower, Least Bittern Up, Least Bittern Down

The Road Home

At 7 PM, with the light dying slowly in a murky miasma on the horizon, I set back on the long road to the freeway home. As I was passing through some agricultural fields[xvi], I noticed a great roiling cloud of dust headed my way. I pulled over as the dust cloud passed me by. As it began to clear and light rays scattered through the premature dusk, I noticed one, then two, then a dozen, then a multitude of motionless hawks all around me. Some perched on fences, some stood on the ground, some peered from the underbrush. The gathering of raptors became clear when I saw that the source of the dust was a farmer plowing up a vast overgrown field. Rodents in the vegetation fled in the wake of the tiller, onto the dry bare ground, where they were a helpless feast for the hawks. I saw almost all of the expected raptors for the day all at once. It was a fantastic way to end the day.

Swainson’s Hawk on Fenceline, Swainson’s Hawk on Ground, Swainson’s Hawk

Results

While it wasn’t completely the intention, this “Big Day” was a pretty damn good last hurrah not only for the season, but for the foreseeable future. I found over 140 bird species in one day, 26 of which were warblers. Even though I hadn’t set out to run up a huge tally, it spoke well of the extent of the day, and the scope of the sojourning through different places. Fittingly, on what was likely my last long day of birding for a while, I finally found my 350^th species, fulfilling the original goal I’d set for myself when I started off down the path of learning the area birds. Even more fittingly, that 350^th species was my old nemesis, the Cerulean Warbler. When I pulled back into my driveway that evening, it was 9:30. 220 miles and 18 solid hours of excursion lay behind me, and the challenges of fatherhood lay before me. I’m not looking backwards.

Black Skimmers in Flight

NOTES

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[i] Though I have enough grey/missing hair to pass as one these days.

[ii] Unlike some of my colleagues who regularly travel the globe specifically for birding. I fit mine in where time on vacations permits. I certainly don’t look askance at bird-related travel. I just don’t have the time or vacation to do it, nor do I think I could narrow my focus enough to build a trip solely on one aspect of nature. This translates into a lot of early mornings before the rest of the family awakens.

[iii] So sad that a single day seems such a dear and inordinate amount of time. I remember glorious expanses of time as a kid, vast, golden afternoons sacrificed to wandering without a worry about other commitments. I know some folks who can still harness that mindset, and I envy them unrelentingly.

[iv] There is absolutely no greater travel feeling than the first step out the door, with the vast expanse of your experience-to-be laid out before you, cresting over the precipice of anticipation. These are the sort of semi-poetic, semi-insane thoughts that pour through one’s head at 3 AM in the morning, when what you really should be thinking is, “hey, did I forget the sunscreen?”.

[v] I’ve talked about my love/hate affair with Galveston before, here and here.

[vi] Galveston is called an Island, and Bolivar a Peninsula, but both are essentially part of the long barrier island system that runs along the Texas Coast. Viva la difference.  

[vii] Kolaches are a universal breakfast food in Texas, harkening back to the German/Czech origins of the area. They’re really not that amazing to describe…essentially various fruit danishes and pigs-in-blankets style meat/cheese/etc baked goods. But with a side of chocolate milk, a couple Jalapeno-sausage-and cheese kolaches and one or two sweet fruit kolaches will keep you running most of the day.  

[viii] I’m convinced that it was a direct portal into a previously undescribed ring of Dante’s hell. Perhaps punishment for those who balk at government spending on proper utility infrastructure…

[ix] I do not believe this comparison to overstate the relative zeal of the “pilgrims” to High Island.

[x] This is an incredibly relative use of the term “highest”. Also ”town”.

[xi] Conditions were right to see birds; not great for the birds themselves. Birdwatchers love fallouts, but it’s a mixed bag because strong northerly winds that ground birds on the coast essentially mean that mortality in the migrating species is going to go up appreciably as many don’t make it to the coast in the first place. It’s almost a selfish sort of excitement, and makes me feel a little uneasy in the extent to which people sometimes turn a blind eye to the consequences of the phenomenon.  

[xii] The attendees of which, especially in migration season, make up an appreciable portion of the town revenue.

[xiii] Yes it is possible to have a 5-inch nemesis. Until this point, the Cerulean warbler had been the one warbler species that seemed to always appear where I had just been, or was going to go, but never when I was there.

[xiv] All in all, as I posted about previously, I found 31 of the ~35 warbler species over the course of the season. 1 of the missing species was too far afield to go after, and the remaining trinity were exceptionally hard finds this season.  

[xv] Like many coastal refuges, it primarily serves to protect wintering grounds for the large numbers of geese and other waterfowl that flow into it each winter.

[xvi] This part of the area is deeply, deeply rural. And flat. Think Mississippi Delta.

155 Inches of Spring

I am Curious/Yellow (Prothonotary Warbler – Trinity National Wildlife Refuge)

As I posted recently, I’m just coming off a month and a half of nearly nonstop bird-ery, spent hacking my way through swamps, forests, prairie, and beaches[i]  in pursuit of tiny feathered creatures .

I’m hiding, lol! You totes can’t see me! (Magnolia Warbler-High Island)

While hundreds of species migrate through the upper Texas Gulf Coast (UTC) during spring, the undeniably largest draw for birdwatchers are the Warblers[ii]. The boringly bland textbook definition[iii] for a warbler is a member of a species belonging to  “group of small, often colorful, passerine birds which make up the family Parulidae”.  This is a fairly useless definition for encapsulate the sheer delight-nearing-obsession some birdwatchers experience in sighting these birds. In most birdwatchers’ hierarchies, warblers are comfortably ensconced at the top, secondary only to “anything I haven’t seen yet”[iv].  I think, like many things in life, the draw is based on some mix of novelty, rarity, and the collecting instinct[v]. While it’s amazing to me that five inches of bird can hurl itself nonstop across the Gulf of Mexico, it’s even more amazing to me how big a deal they become when they arrive, and what millions in dollars in revenue spring from the folks who flock to see them. The Coast pins a lot of hopes and dreams of all kinds on these little feathered backs[vi].

I can handle the pressure, I’m a ninja! (Hooded Warbler, Quintana)

There are over 35 species of Warblers that one can reliably expect to see on the UTC during spring, so there’s plenty of fodder to keep the collectors going. It all happens in a pretty short time frame, so frenzy ensues. Regardless, there is something innately cool about getting to share real space with some form of life you don’t get to encounter all the time. While they’re all related, it’s interesting to see how different the characters of the different species are. Black-throated Greens are inquisitive, and will land on shoes and shoulders. Ovenbirds spend more time running on the ground than in the air. Parulas are incredibly territorial. Black-and-white’s spend a lot of time upside down on branches, comically looking for insects. Redstarts are attention junkies. Hooded Warblers skulk about in their little ninja hood head plumage. And so on. These differences are why simply checking off a bird on a list is not interesting to me. It’s the observations that make the experience.

The observed becomes the observer (Black-throated Green Warbler, Lafitte’s Cove)

Warblers are the epitome of why photographing birds is a bit of a fool’s errand. They are small (~5”), they are often seen from moderate distances, and they don’t stand still. I have met more than one photographer in the field whose lenses could easily be cashed in for a car. Or three. I like the challenge, though it has to be tempered with patience[vii]. Unless one has the patience to wait at a drip[viii] for indeterminate periods of time, it can be hit or miss. That being said, it’s nice when the heavens align and you get a decent shot. The heavens don’t align for me very often.

 

Heavens Asunder. (a few of the many, many blurry, unfocused, or missed shots)

Results

As much as I poke a little good-natured fun at the obsession with warblers, I have to admit I’ve been keeping track this season[ix]. Throughout my springtime wanderings I managed to photograph 31 species of warblers[x], 6 of which I had never seen in the wild before, let alone photographed. 

So here, in all their tiny glory, are 155 inches[xi] of spring:

Warblers, from top: 1) Black-throated Green, 2) Bay-breasted, 3) Black-and-White, 4) Blackburnian, 5) Blackpoll, 6) Blue-winged, 7)Canada, 8) Cerulean, 9) Yellow-Breasted Chat, 10) Chestnut-sided, 11) Common Yellowthroat, 12) Golden-cheeked, 13) Golden-winged, 14) Hooded, 15) Kentucky, 16) Magnolia, 17) Northern Waterthrush, 18) Nashville, 19) Northern Parula, 20) Orange-crowned, 21) Ovenbird, 22) Pine, 23) Prothonotary, 24) American Redstart, 25) Swainson’s, 26) Wilson’s, 27) Tennessee, 28) Worm-eating, 29) Yellow, 30) Yellow-rumped, 31) Yellow-throated.

 

NOTES

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[i] Ok, one doesn’t technically “hack” one’s way through a beach. Please insert a sufficiently strenuous sounding verb of your choice. 

[ii] In this context, referring to the New World/”Wood” Warblers. They do, in fact warble.

[iii] If your textbook happens to be Wikipedia. Which sounds like a joke, but when you think about it, is probably closer to a universal truth than we're likely comfortable admitting.

[iv] Personally, I favor the raptors. I have nothing against warblers, but other than their vibrant coloration and relative rarity, they don’t really do anything amazing. Conversely, they are notoriously hard to photography well given their size and general skittishness. Raptors are, on the average, finely honed killing machines who don’t need to count the number of f^%&s they give, because no one needs to count to 0. They are bigger and easier to photograph from a distance. Also, some raptors eat small passerine birds like warblers, so, natural selection has already weighed in on this. 

[v] The latter seems to be an especially potent motivating factor. During the high period of migration, some birdwatchers seem almost obsessed with the drive to see as many as they can in one period of time. It’s like Pokemon for retirees.

[vi] That being said, it is somewhat heartening in these jaded times to see someone’s eyes light up, sans irony, by as simple a thing as a small bird.

[vii] When you think about it, the odds of seeing any given species are really whacked out. While millions of birds migrate across the Gulf, they’re pretty darn small, and when they hit land, they disperse up the flyways. The sheer random chance of inhabiting the same 20’ square space as any given warbler would be miniscule if they weren’t coming through in such large numbers.

[viii] Many bird sanctuaries and parks will maintain small water features that draw thirsty migrating birds. I have mixed feelings about this as  it’s nice to have a known location, but it also feels a bit like hunting deer at a feeder.

[ix] I also have to admit that my first “birdwatching trip” of the season was to Balcones Canyonlands, near Austin, a 6 hour round trip ostensibly for one single species of bird. This is something I’ve looked askance at in days past. In my defense, I’ve wanted to hike Balcones for a long time, and was invited by a colleague. But still, 400 miles for 4 inches of bird. Didn’t even get a good picture of one.

[x] Part of that was sheer, stupid luck, and part of it was a function of the excessive volume of time spent in the field this year.

[xi] 31 species X 5” per bird = 155 inches. 

Spring Migration Season 2013

I haven’t written much the last month or so, because I’ve been, often literally, knee deep in spring bird migration season here on the Coast. Instead of one massive post about the experience, I decided to break it up into a series. This is the first. Photo highlights from the entire season can be viewed here.

Flocks at Dawn - Bolivar Peninsula

I’m having a child in Septemberⁱ. I’ll be a father for the first time. That may seem an odd introduction to a post about birdwatchingⁱⁱ. Like everything else in my life, however, I think the two things are about to be intrinsically linked as my time for all this side pursuit becomes a far distant priorityⁱⁱⁱ. Not that I’m done with the hobby, just that the amount of my time, effort and mental energy I can dedicate to it are about to change fundamentally. With a child on the horizon, it’s not likely that I’ll have this combination of time and energy again anytime soon, so I am aiming to make this year a good one^iv. Given this realization, my pursuit of feathered creatures up and down the Coast for the better part of the last month and a half has been in the perspective of a last hurrah. As last hurrahs go, however, it was fairly epic^v.

Though maybe not THIS much of a hurrah...

I’ve written in years past (2009, 2010, 2011, 2012) about my experiences with the odd, rambunctiousness^vi of the spring bird migration season on the Texas Coast. As millions of migrating neotropical birds funnel through the upper Texas Gulf Coast, a corresponding storm of retirees, ornithologists and their ilk, enthusiasts, and unapologetic madmen^vii rush to the coast for brief glimpses of a tapestry of feathered blazes of color. People literally travel the width and breadth of the land, across the US and from other countries, to descend on ramshackle^viii coastal towns. It’s exciting in about the most odd way something can be exciting. As much as I’ve played an enthusiastic role in this khaki-colored torrent, I can also step back and realize the inherent humor in the scale and intensity displayed in our pursuit of four inches of bird.

A dozen men looking excitedly at the sky...it's either Superman, the Rapture, or a warbler.

Got a flat surface? We will make a list on it.

Since this would be likely be my last big migration season for a while, I tried to make it a one sufficiently robust to go out on. My personal goal is to see about 300 distinct species this year. I knew that a vastly disproportionate number of them would be crammed into the month and a half period between late March and early May. So, armed with a new lens^ix I trudged through blistering prairie, mosquito-infested wetlands, down lonesome beaches, and about every other type of habitat we’ve got (which is no small thing here in Houston) in search of all things avian.

Some of the various terrains over which the Mazda Corporation and I have vehemently disagreed upon in regard to the intended uses of my Mazda 3.

Other things live where the birds are. For example, this deadly Cottonmouth next to my foot.

From my trip out to Balcones Canyonlands National Wildlife Refuge near Austin at the start of the season, to my final Big Day sojourn to the Mecca of High Island in the oil wilds of the Upper Coast, I worked this season hard. I worked it like it was my job. I worked it like a particularly unloved redheaded stepchild. In the month of April there was literally only one or two days in which I did not at least go to the small urban park near work for a lunch hour stroll armed with binoculars.

A range of locales: Balcones Canyonlands, Russ Pittman Park, Bolivar Peninsula, High Island

In all, I traveled about 1375 miles specifically for migration birding. That’s equivalent to driving to Detroit from Houston, or driving back and forth across the entire state of Texas. That’s about $150 in gas alone. I visited 16 public lands by myself, with seasoned veterans, or as a hike leader, including 2 State Parks, 5 National Wildlife Refuges/Refuge units, 3 Audubon sanctuaries, and 8 local parks. The final result was about 215 distinct species, 32 warbler^x species, 15 species I had never encountered before^xi, and thousands of individual birds. On the last day of the season I photographed my 350^th lifetime species^xii. Then I photo’d my 351^st, then my 352^nd, and so on. But the numbers really don’t tell the story. Simply walking around noting birds on a list bores the hell out of me. The unique encounters, experiences, locales, and moments with characters in the field are the things that keep me coming back.

Here are some of my favorite moments, interspersed with some of my favorite photos and videos, of the season :

• Meeting and getting a chance to hang out with several people in the field who had literally “written the book” about bird species migration on the Texas Coast.
  
  
  Close encounter with a Black-throated Green Warbler
  
  
• Joining an overblown cliché of a young Scotsman, with an accent straight out of Trainspotting, for a brief, deadly serious hunt for birds. His mind was so blown upon seeing a Wild Turkey (somewhat rarer in these parts) that he was given over to total euphoria, jumped up and down, high fived me repeatedly, and all but hugged me in his exuberance. You have to respect that sheer lack of irony joy in what he does. It was infectious.
  
  
  
  

  New lens gets me amazing closeups of Reddish Egret and Tricolored Heron fishing
  
  
• Contemplating the Mazda Corporation’s reaction to the sheer disdain and lack of anything resembling concern for my little Mazda 3 as I drove it at barreling speeds down forgotten beaches, over rough prairie terrain, and, most dangerous of all, down surface streets in Houston. Call me crazy, but I really think the little fellow almost cracks a joyous smile sometimes at surviving the ridiculous terrain I send him over.
  
  
  
  Orchard Oriole on Coral Bean, Quintana, TX
  
  
• Getting to hang out with my father-in-law for an impromptu bird hike in an arboretum.
  
  
  
  Lincoln's Sparrow, Memorial Arboretum with Dad McColgin
  
  
• Driving through a cloud of dust from a field being plowed, deep in rural east texas. As the dust cleared, I realized I was surrounded on all sides by the largest gathering of hawks I’d ever seen. Hawks of about every local species had come in to feast on the rodents driven out from the vegetation as the field was plowed. It was almost eerie to see their sharp and motionless shapes appear one by one out of the gloom, like sentinels all around me.
  
  
  
  Sentinel - Swainson's Hawk
  
  
• Forgetting about the birds for a moment for a solitary drive^xiii down the near-abandoned beach at Quintana on a beautiful spring day, with the breeze coming off the ocean as the sun set.
  
  
  
  Deserted beach at Quintana
  
  
• Getting the chance to lead groups on hikes in various locations, and learning that it’s not necessary to know more than everyone else on your guided tour as long as you’re sufficiently confidant and excited. “Often wrong, but never in doubt”, as one of my mentors intones.
  
  
  
  Blurry, but first time pictures of two life bird – the endangered Golden-cheeked Warbler, and my one-time nemesis, the Cerulean Warbler.
  
  
• Being really happy, without a trace of bittersweet, about the poetic justice in reaching my longtime goal of 350 species in what is likely my last active season for a long time.
  
  
  

The unappreciated awesomeness of “ordinary” or unexcitedly colored birds posing perfectly (Swainson's Thrush, Summer Tanager, Great-tailed Grackles, Semmipalmated Plover, Rose-breasted Grosbeak female, Herring Gull in the Surf.)

• Watching the day break over the Gulf of Mexico as I ate breakfast in the field, on an isolated sandbar, shorebirds scurrying around me by the thousands, circumnavigating a flock of Pelicans holding court.

Daybreak on Bolivar Flats

Kingdom of the Pelicans

• Being in the middle of a fallout, sitting absolutely still on a path with a couple of old birders for an hour or more, as birds literally swarmed all around us, several of which were new species for me.
  
  
  
  Painted Bunting – Quintana, TX.
  
  
• Meeting a lot of great folks, including the young and shyly exuberant Paula who knows that a day in the field birding is no excuse to forget to be fashionable, and who gave me my very own bird nickname^xiv. She and her father Paul were some of my favorite new friends of the year.
  
  
  
  Paula does her victory dance – Painted Bunting at last.
  
  
• My last full day in the field^xv, in which I traveled completely around Galveston Bay, traveling over 250 miles for a 16-hour day of birding.

Tiem to stretch after a long trip - Willet, San Luis Pass

It was a great, rollicking season^xvi, and a great one to go out on. For now, at least… ask me again next Spring.

NOTES

i Well, not literally of course… I mean, my wife is actually doing the heavy lifting on that bit.

ii I know the preferred term in some circles is “birding”/”birder”. I still find that inherently silly on the surface, as I still don’t think “to bird” is a proper verb, even given its fowling origins. Even more so, I find some of the attitudes behind the insistence on being called “birders” rather than “birdwatchers” a little disturbing. There seems to be a deep-seated need among some types of birders, to differentiate themselves from the common folk who may enjoy birds in their backyard but not devote every moment of free time and earned money to ticking species off a list. This is hardly the case for all birders, but enough so that it warrants a mention. The most staunchly insistent “birders” tend to be listers…those who pursue birds almost to the point of obsession to check them off lists. Don’t get me wrong, I keep a life list, and have no issue with that. It’s just the level of effort and intensity bound up in lists that gets out of control some times. Life lists, year lists, county lists, patch lists…all good fun in the right hands, but with an unfortunate tendency to become the drivers, not the accompaniers, of the activity. Worst are those who think themselves elite and look disdainfully down their noses at amateurs as if there’s something inherently laughable at someone just starting out, or who enjoys, but does not devote a lot of time to, the hobby. The sort of person who literally looks down on another person if their binoculars are not Swarovskis, etc. Anyone who needs to make themselves feel better than others in order to feel ok about themselves is missing the problem. Personally, I like two things about the hobby: 1) the photography challenge it presents, and 2) the chance to watch wildlife. I really am into this for the watching, not just the sighting, but actually just the primal, childish is you must, joy of just watching something else alive on the planet with you do its thing. I have no special love for birds, moreso than other wildlife; we just have a lot of them down here on the coast. I do not have a special love for lists, or for establishing my identity based around my hobby. I certainly have no desire to ever think more highly of myself than someone else based on the gear around my neck or how jaded I am on seeing common birds. I know a lot of great “birders”. I also know a lot who do a disservice to their occupation. If calling myself a birder means getting lumped in with the latter, I’d rather just call myself a birdwatcher. Some may make the argument that because we do a lot more than watch…we listen more than anything else, then birdwatching is just a plain incorrect appellation. I will be the first to agree that the key element in birdwatching is listening for cues to location, but I’ll believe we’re really there for the listening when I see people spending as much on hearing gear as they do on binoculars and cameras. Listening serves the watching, not vice versa. So I remain a birdwatcher, hopefully with the humility that implies. Wow this is a long footnote.

iii Which I am fine with. It’s time. I don’t regret the change, just recognize it.

iv Some people (see note 1 for my general disdain for listers) would judge the value of a year in the field by sheer numbers. While that’s a nice indicator, for me the satisfaction of a good field year is the quality of the observations, and the related experiences.

v Insomuch as that word can be applied to birdwatching. Which is to say, only arguably so, and not without being accompanied by a sufficient level of shame, delusion, or spirits.

vi A term which is oddly but indelibly linked to Theodore Roosevelt in my mind. I think it’s because I once described his writing style as being akin to a mix of scholarly study and rambunctious Tyrannosaurus. Now I can’t use that word without picturing him.

vii As opposed to Mad Men. Although I’m now picturing Don Draper birdwatching. Suited, scotch on one hand, binoculars in another, spewing some undeservedly brilliant copy about an Indigo Bunting or something..”It’s not about the bird, it’s about the feeling. It’s about the childhood wonder. Do you get that from an Sparrow? No. No one’s going to buy your binoculars because of a sparrow. That’s commonplace. That’s their lives 7 days a week. They want to touch the mysterious. They crave to be in contact with that deep well of what they can’t have. They want to go out and see something that reminds them they’re alive and life has more to offer than the everyday. ‘Indigo Bunting – everything else is just a sparrow’.” Then he drinks some more and hits on a buxom field biologist. Don Draper would be a birdwatcher’s birdwatcher. I would go birdwatching with Don Draper.

viii This may conjure up images of quaint little New England tourist towns on the shore. Strike this image from your mind. When I say ramshackle, I mean ramshackle in the sense that these are often places-that-time-but-not-the-petrochemical-industry forgot. Also, places where there may very well have been, at some point in time, incidents involving rams and shackles. Best not to pry too deeply.

ix A slightly older Sigma 400mm f/5.6 AF (non-APO), for those keeping track. A workhorse of a lens, though not of exceptionally high quality. Solid as a rock, but lacking in sharpness unless stopped down. In retrospect I should have tried to dig up an APO version on Ebay. To its credit, its performance in good light is exceptional for its price, but it suffers in low light. Still, a 400mm prime that is decent in decent light and can be easily handheld, for about $275 used is ridiculous. I am straddling the fence on choosing between staying with Pentax, and moving to Canon/Nikon, so I didn’t want to invest a lot in a “better” telephoto lens for Pentax if I was going to abandon the system next year. This was a good compromise lens for the mean time.

x The odd little rockstars of migration birding

xi Or, “lifers”, to the birdwatchers. Yet another term that is equal parts awesome and unintentionally hilarious.

xii An informal life goal for some time. When I originally dipped my toes in the murky waters of birding, it was primarily because I loved the natural world and wanted to increase my knowledge about this aspect of it. Partly, it was a matter of circumstances…I found myself in an area renowned for its avifauna, but not a whole lot else, naturally speaking. So birds it was. Since about 300-500 species are regularly seen during the course of the year in the Houston area, I thought learning and photographing 350 birds (a seemingly insurmountable number at the time) would be a significant milestone in getting a grounding in popular ornithology. The sad thing is that when we first moved to Houston, I was out hiking with a photography group, and one somewhat socially awkward fellow exclaimed to me in an odd mixture of self-conscious pride that he had photographed 350 bird species. At the time I remember thinking, “ok, great. How’s that working for you?”. F&*^ you, irony.

xiii As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, we can drive on beaches in much of Texas. And by “drive” I don’t mean, carefully pick our way along a precious habitat. I mean, barrel down the tide line in souped-up 4X4’s crushing anything not fit enough to survive itself the hell out of our way, because f^#% you, nature, that’s why. That being said, and with the proper amount of environmental guilt, it is a fantastic experience to cruise down a beach with no one else in sight for miles.

xiv Yellow-crowned Night Heron. I am unsure why. But I accept it with pride.

xv This “Big Day” will be the subject of a later post

xviWith many thanks to Bill Godley, David Heinecke, Bob Schwartz, Mary Ann Beauchemin, Jim Hinson, Fred Collins, Brazos Bend bird hikers, Paul and Paula, David Sarkozi and Texbirds, the unnamed scotsman, and my long-suffering wife Kate.