Here are a few more photos of my experience with juncos in the goldenrod field recently. See the last “For the Birds” column for the whole story. On a side note, now you know what goldenrod looks like after the yellow flowers die off.
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Have you seen any videos of kayakers being surrounded by whales?
I’ve seen a few such videos. I’m not sure where they were filmed, but I’m reasonably sure they are real and not AI-generated. Of course, it’s getting harder to tell these days.
While being surrounded by whales would be a moment you’d never forget, I’m not sure I’d want to experience it. I didn’t get into bird- and wildlife-watching for extreme, brush-with-destiny experiences.
I did, however, have a similar experience last week. Granted, this was far less risky and would never go viral on social media, but for me, it was a moment I won’t soon forget.
I came to the part of the trail where it exits the woods and cuts through the middle of a smallish meadow, about the size of a football field. Like most meadows, it looks vastly different depending on the season. In the spring, it is lush green and the flowers, weeds and grasses seem to grow by the hour. In the summer and early fall, colorful blooms take over the scene, and the growth is so thick that the trail becomes impassable. I tried plowing through the trail once in the summer and was covered with ticks by the time I reached the other side. I’m not doing that again.
In the fall, after the goldenrod has faded but before winter applies its death grip, the field is a pleasing palette of subtle brown and yellow notes. Fall foliage from the woods and brushy areas around the perimeter of the meadow paints the background with vibrant shades of red, orange and yellow.
Such was the scene the other day when I entered the meadow. I immediately noticed a ton of bird activity among the browned grasses and weeds. A lone palm warbler flew off into the brush, and a small group of white-throated sparrows followed suit. But the juncos remained.
I got about 15 steps into the meadow and stopped. I looked around and realized I was surrounded by juncos. The little black or dark gray and white birds went about their business of eating goldenrod seeds while I took in the scenery. It was difficult to get an accurate count because many of the birds preferred to do their seed hunting toward the middle of the plant instead of the top. I would guess there were at least 30 juncos total in all directions from where I stood, some as close as 10 feet away.
Again, not quite like being surrounded in a kayak by whales, but I’ll take it any day.
On top of everything else, it was a perfect late fall morning. It was about 50 degrees, enough to need a sweatshirt but nothing more, and light cloud cover kept the harsh sun at bay. As I get older, I am much more appreciative of moments like this. I was outdoors, the temperature was ideal (for me anyway), and dozens of birds surrounded me.
In this day of virulent political division, social media dumpster fires, and animosity toward fellow man by so many, it’s nice to get lost in moments like these. Leave it to New England nature to provide the perfect escape.
Two species dominated my latest bird walk.
Perhaps not surprisingly, the white-throated sparrow was the most dominant species. I lost track of how many I had seen early in the walk as dozens of these beautiful native sparrows were around every bend.
The second-most dominant species may be a bit more surprising. While large groups of white-throated sparrows lingered around every corner, singular ruby-crowned kinglets kept me occupied on the straightaways.
They were constant companions during the walk. Little flashes of movement in the bushes or low branches of trees gave away their whereabouts. Not that they were trying to stay concealed, as they can be surprisingly tame for wild birds.
Tame or not, close looks or not, ruby-crowned kinglets are notoriously difficult to photograph, as they are in constant motion, and predicting their next move is a crapshoot. If you see one that sits still for a full second, you’d better be prepared with the camera and not blow the opportunity. (I’ve blown innumerable opportunities, by the way.)
Then comes the real challenge: Getting a photo of one with their namesake crown exposed. Not only do you have to get a kinglet to sit still long enough for a photo, but the bird must be in an excited state. Ruby-crowned kinglets show their colorful crown only when they are unsettled. Otherwise, these birds are mostly olive colored with yellow and black wings and tails, and an eye ring that doesn’t quite make it all the way around the eye.
All the kinglet photos I managed to capture on this particular walk were without the crown exposed. (Although the photo at the top shows just a hint of the red crown.) In fact, in my entire photo collection going back many years, I have very few photos of kinglets with their crowns showing.
Golden-crowned kinglets, a sleeker and slightly more decorated cousin of ruby-crowned kinglets, are the same way. They are difficult to photograph because of their hyperactivity and display their crowns only when agitated. To me anyway, golden-crowned kinglets are even more difficult to photograph because I see far fewer of them than ruby-crowned kinglets.
Kinglets do not typically visit birdfeeders, but they may still be found in yards. Check flowerbeds with dead and dying flowers, as kinglets are often found close to the ground. They are most likely looking for insects and spiders to eat, but they do supplement their diet with seeds and berries. Flowers that linger deep into fall, such as sedum, are good candidates to attract ruby-crowned kinglets. For golden-crowned kinglets, check evergreen trees, particularly those thick with branches and needles.
Kinglets are New England’s smallest birds, apart from hummingbirds. What they lack in size, kinglets make up for in character. (Hummingbirds fit that bill as well.) They are high-energy, exceptionally fun to watch and numerous during certain times of the year. Kinglets may occasionally be found during the winter in New England, but most of them make a relatively short migration to southern U.S. or Mexico.
As a late migrant, the tiny kinglet adds a little pizzazz to a late fall walk.
Here are a few photos of a red-bellied woodpecker, taken simply because it was a cool bird that visited my feeder today. Note the faint red on the belly, hence the name.
Here are a few more photos of the cedar waxwings eating crabapples, as a follow-up to my recent column.
Sometimes, the path less traveled is the way to go. In fact, it almost always is when it comes to birdwatching.
The park I frequent in southern New England features a variety of habitats: ponds, woods, fields and marshlands. The fields are quite large and have a path running through the middle. In the spring and summer, visitors are restricted to the path to protect nesting birds such as bobolinks, field sparrows and red-winged blackbirds.
In fall and winter, however, after the fields have been cut, the restricted signs come down. Most people, in fact almost all people, still stick to the path as it’s the quickest and easiest way to get to the woods. They don’t see (or care about) the tremendous opportunities that exist along the brushy edges of the fields.
Fall is the best time to explore the edges as berries and shelter attract birds and other wildlife. Palm warblers are automatic sightings for a few weeks in October as they devour seeds from the grasses that remain standing. Yellow-rumped warblers are also reliable sightings as they chow down on poison ivy berries and the fruits of other plants.
Eastern bluebirds and eastern phoebes like to hang out around the edges as well. They use the overhanging branches to scan the field for insects.
The other day, I noticed a flock of birds in a distant bare tree. They were flying back and forth to a nearby tree. Assuming they were starlings, I raised my binoculars to confirm. Turns out, they were cedar waxwings. Lots of them.
As I got closer, I realized the tree they were flying to and from was a crabapple tree loaded with red, orange and yellow fruits. I climbed over a stone wall overgrown with all sorts of weeds and grasses for a closer look. I pulled a single deer tick off of my sweatshirt and closed the distance even more.
The waxwings paid me no mind, so I approached within camera range. Surrounded by goldenrod that had gone to fluffy seed, I took some photos and observed the flock. Many of the birds were youngsters, hatched a few months prior. Waxwings nest a bit later than most songbirds, so the immature birds were several weeks younger than the migrating first-year birds that passed through the area in September or early October.
Immature cedar waxwings lack the polished, silky look of the adults. They appear much duller and have streaked undersides. The black mask is not as obvious as in adults, and they lack the trademark waxy, red wingtips. (Not all adults have obvious wing tips either.) They do sport the yellow-tipped tail.
The waxwings feasted on the apples. The apples were small but still much too large for the birds to eat in one gulp. Rather, they contorted themselves and took meaty bites of the fruits until only the stem remained.
I came across an interesting tidbit while researching cedar waxwings recently. According to the Cornell Lab of Ornithology, waxwings specialize in eating fruit and can live on fruit alone for several months. Brown-headed cowbirds that are raised by waxwings often do not survive because of the all-fruit diet.
The remainder of the walk was filled with sightings of white-throated sparrows and ruby-crowned kinglets. They seemed to be around every corner. The highlight of the walk, however, was the waxwings feasting on the apples. Had I stuck to the trail, I would have missed it.
Launching the canoe from the campsite proved to be much more difficult than I imagined. The dry summer left the pond extremely shallow, and the shoreline had receded to the point where I had to carry the canoe through several yards of muck to reach the water.
A solitary sandpiper watched the action from the opposite shoreline. Its interest faded quickly, and it went back to looking for food in the shallows.
Once on the water, I dodged a few rocks ─ some exposed and some lurking just beneath the surface ─ and eventually was able to float freely. The feeling of freedom shortly came to an end as the canoe stopped abruptly. Thick vegetation put the brakes on the effortless ride and required heavy paddling to move forward.
The pond is relatively small, so I was determined to canoe around the entire shoreline and end up back at the campsite. For the moment anyway, I put out of my mind the effort it was going to take to get the canoe back out of the water.
The thick vegetation made the going tough, but I managed to round the first bend. A young bald eagle flew overhead and landed near the top of a distant evergreen. A vast swamp and towering mountains in the background came into view. No birds, mammals or reptiles to be seen, however.
But there was an interesting sighting that drew me in. As I slogged my way toward the target, I had no fear of it flying away like a heron, plopping in the water like a turtle, running away like a deer or silently sauntering into the woods like a moose. It was a plant. It wasn’t going anywhere.
I don’t normally get excited about seeing plants, although I understand why many people do. It was a purple pitcher plant, or more accurately, several purple pitcher plants. I hadn’t seen pitcher plants in many years, mostly because I haven’t been in my canoe as much as I’d like.
Pitcher plants are named after the container that holds liquid, not the baseball player that stands on the mound. The pitcher-shaped leaves attract and trap insects. They are one of New England’s few carnivorous plants.
According to Massachusetts Audubon’s website, “Its vase-shaped leaves are 4-10 inches long. Peer inside one of these leaves and you’ll see a bacteria-laden soup. Insects fall into this fluid and are digested; they can’t escape because the walls are lined with downward-pointing hairs.”
I don’t typically find plants interesting, but it’s hard not to be fascinated by carnivorous plants. For those of a certain age, like me, we can remember the advertisements for Venus flytraps in the backs of comic books. The plants, of course, were depicted as menacing creatures daring any insect to come close. I guess that’s where my fascination started.
Pitcher plants do not look menacing, but they do stand out among the shorelines of ponds, fens and bogs with their rich maroon or purple color. They live in wet, acidic places where the soil is poor in nutrients. The insects they “eat” supplement their diet.
Purple pitcher plants are hardy enough to handle cold winters and can be found throughout New England, from Connecticut through Maine. They grow low to the ground in clusters. While not as flashy a wildlife sighting as a rare bird or regal mammal, pitcher plants have a beauty, mystery and intrigue that makes their story fascinating.
Sometimes the allure comes from unexpected sources, but New England nature never disappoints.
I finally got a ruby-crowned kinglet to sit still for half a second. Today’s walk was filled with white-throated sparrows and ruby-crowned kinglets.
I pulled into the lot at the park, and a small flock of dark-eyed juncos scurried into the tall grass as my wheels came to a stop. The white border on the tail makes for an easy identification of juncos, even from behind.
Ten minutes later, as I walked along a trail with brush on either side of me, I heard the unmistakable call of the eastern towhee: “tow-hee,” with the second part rising in pitch. I spotted the beauty a few moments later.
There is a fairly short window in New England to see both of these birds on the same day. Towhees, the vast majority of them anyway, fly south before the juncos arrive from their northern breeding grounds. Juncos do breed throughout New England, but they are much more visible and numerous when the weather gets colder. Towhees are early arrivals in the spring and late departures in the fall, offering windows to see them and juncos on the same bird walk.
Eastern towhees and dark-eyed juncos look nothing alike. They aren’t even the same size, as the towhee is larger and much bulkier. Yet they are from the same family. Even more interesting is that neither one of them looks like other members of their family.
What comes to mind when you hear the word “sparrow”? Many people likely think of a house sparrow. Even though they are not native to the U.S., they are the dominant member of the sparrow family, in terms of numbers anyway. House sparrows look like sparrows. They are mostly brownish and rather plain-looking, at least from a superficial glance.
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My favorite part of winter birdwatching has always been looking for waterfowl on whatever open water remains. Searching for bald eagles in those same areas has become another favorite of mine as the population of our national bird soars, and we see them more frequently.
Winter is also arguably the best time to watch feeders in the yard, although one can easily make a case for spring being the best time when the grosbeaks, buntings and other surprises arrive. Watching the feeders in winter, particularly before a storm, is a constant treat of chickadees, titmice, nuthatches, woodpeckers, cardinals, blue jays, juncos and white-throated sparrows.
In my opinion, an underrated part of winter birding is the finch irruption, or lack thereof, depending on the year. Birds such as siskins, redpolls, purple finches, crossbills, pine grosbeaks and evening grosbeaks sometimes irrupt into our region as food supply dictates. Other birds such as red-breasted nuthatches are also lumped into the category of unpredictable winter bird visitors.
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Birds of New England.com 