Cape Cod 12/24/12 (7:37am-4:42pm)

T'was the morn before Christmas and all through my head frolicked the noises of the Cape Codian highway and the Crosby, Stills and Nash playing on the stereo. “Chestnut-brown Canary, Ruby-throated Sparrow, sing your song...” yet my mind was distracted by the possibility of the more existent birds that awaited us this day. A single grey cloud swathed the horizon in a damp pallor, but we remained undaunted as we approached Provincetown. 

We arrived (”we” being grandfather, brother and I) in the seemingly deserted parking lot of Race Point as the clock dashed through the 8:40's. A screech of breaks, a slamming of doors and the zipping of coats and then we were enjoying the company of a Palm Warbler. It in turn was enjoying the roof of the abandoned park restrooms on which it’s frozen feet clutched in order not to be swept away by that unpleasant sea breeze. Palm Warblers tend to be rather uncommon so late in the season so this was a particularly pleasing find.

Approximately a minute later we tallied our first and only lifer of the day which came packaged in the form of an Iceland Gull, we would have five of the species by the end of the day.

Two of three Iceland Gulls sen at Race Point

Another Iceland Gull

Our confidence boosted to a level only attainable through good birding we advanced down the beach. Confidence alone however was not enough to keep the self warm through the billowing caresses of the frozen wind and we soon withdrew back to the comparative safety of the car. We had in this rather short time nonetheless seen a number of species including; Northern Gannets, Snow Buntings, White-winged Scoters, two more Iceland Gull and a particularly handsome Gray Seal.

The next stop on the route was one Herring Cove. While not being any great distance from the last beach it is quite unlike it’s counterpart. Most noticeable in comparison with Race Point is that this beach faces into the placid Cape Cod Bay instead of the unfriendly turmoil of waves and wind that is the great North Atlantic.

Abutted by towering dunes, those mighty piles of ground stone and shells looked upon so fondly by those unique beings, New Englanders, the beach glimmered in the now just appearing sun. Unions of hardy aves (gulls and cormorants) littered the beach in un-organized patches of cackling bills, flesh and feathers. In the water similar organizations had been founded by even more numerous Eiders, Scoters and Mergansers. Above them frequently could be seen small flocks of Dunlin carrying themselves east via sputtering flight. We soon grew tired of the location’s feathered selection who although all fascinating were of but a few species and all (still) common. As we departed a brief glimpse of a fly-by Iceland Gull made the walk worthwhile. 

A quick drive through some large salt marshes, where all to be seen was some mud, a kingfisher and a couple of American Black Ducks, and then through the center of town, which consisted solely of gift-shops, we found ourselves meandering down the town pier. 

Listen: I am unsure how the residents of Provincetown survive with a shopping venue which includes but baseball caps and magnets with lobsters on them and most notably does not include any edible items. 

Returning back to the thought-stream from which I have just strayed; here eiders, Buffleheads and goldeneyes floated amongst the boats of their anthropomorphic coworkers. Into the feathered stage rose to my eyes the princely crown of an immature King Eider. A most elegant duck who paddled about in circles for a good half-hour serving only to make us rather dizzy and bored. The motionless form of an elegant Long-tailed Duck came as a relief as did the return to CSN and the cushioned seats of the car. 

The King Eider and a Common Eider

A Common Loon at the Provincetown Docks

Next we ... this is getting boring and I want to start writing a post about the Dovekie we saw the other day, scratch this here’s a list (with attached notes and numbers when recorded):

X	Brant (Branta bernicla) - a few at First Encounter Beach.
X	Canada Goose (Branta canadensis)
X	Mute Swan (Cygnus olor)
X	American Wigeon (Anas americana) - a few in Marston's Mill Pond.
X	American Black Duck (Anas rubripes)
X	Mallard (Anas platyrhynchos)
4	Northern Pintail (Anas acute) - Martson's Mill Pond.
X	Ring-necked Duck (Aythya collaris) -Marston's Mill Pond.
1	King Eider (Somateria spectabilis) - Provincetown Docks.
X	Common Eider (Somateria mollissima)
X	White-winged Scoter (Melanitta fusca)
2	Long-tailed Duck (Clangula hyemalis) - Provincetown Docks and Corporation Beach.
X	Bufflehead (Bucephala albeola)
X	Common Goldeneye (Bucephala clangula)
X	Hooded Merganser (Lophodytes cucullatus)
X	Common Merganser Mergus merganser)
X	Red-breasted Merganser (Mergus serrator
X	Common Loon (Gavia immer)
X	Northern Gannet (Morus bassanus)
X	Great Cormorant (Phalacrocorax carbo) - Herring Cove.
1	Great Blue Heron (Ardea hernias) - Marston's Mill Pond.
X	Red-tailed Hawk (Buteo jamaicensis)
X	Sanderling (Calidris alba) - a few with Dunlin at First Encounter Beach.
X	Dunlin (Calidris alpine) - Herring Cove flyby flocks and a small flock at First Encounter Beach.
X	Ring-billed Gull (Larus delawarensis)
X	Herring Gull (Larus argentatus)
5	Iceland Gull (Larus glaucoides) - 3 at Race Point, 1 at Herring Cove and another at Fort Hill.
X	Great Black-backed Gull (Larus marinus)
X	Rock Pigeon (Columba livia)
X	Mourning Dove (Zenaida macroura)
1	Belted Kingfisher (Megaceryle alcyon) - Hunting in a salt marsh in Provincetown.
X	Red-bellied Woodpecker (Melanerpes carolinus)
X	Downy Woodpecker (Picoides pubescens)
X	Blue Jay (Cyanocitta cristata)
X	American Crow (Corvus brachyrhynchos)
X	Black-capped Chickadee (Poecile atricapillus)
X	Tufted Titmouse (Baeolophus bicolor)
X	White-breasted Nuthatch (Sitta carolinensis)
1	Carolina Wren Thryothorus ludovicianus
X	Golden-crowned Kinglet Regulus satrapa - with Yellow-rumped Warbler at Fort Hill.
1	Eastern Bluebird Sialia sialis - heard singing at Wellfleet Bay Audubon.
X	American Robin Turdus migratorius
2	Northern Mockingbird Mimus polyglottos
X	European Starling (Sturnus vulgaris)
X	Snow Bunting (Plectrophenax nivalis) - flyover flock at Race Point.
2	Palm Warbler (Setophaga palmarum) - Race Point and Fort Hill.
X	Yellow-rumped Warbler (Setophaga coronata) - flock at Fort Hill.
X	American Tree Sparrow (Spizella arbor) - Wellfleet Bay Audubon feeders.
2	Field Sparrow (Spizella pusilla) - at the feeders of Wellfleet Bay Audubon.
X	Song Sparrow (Melospiza melody)
1	Swamp Sparrow (Melospiza georgiana) - in the grasses by Marston's Mill Pond.
X	Northern Cardinal (Cardinalis cardinals)
X	Red-winged Blackbird (Agelaius phoenixes) - flock at Wellfleet Bay Audubon.
X	House Finch (Haemorhous mexicanus)
X	American Goldfinch (Spinus tristis)

55 species in total, an excellent number for a single December day in Massachusetts. Credit and thanks is owed to my grandfather for his willingness to drive us around Cape Cod on our annual Solstice birding trip.

On the ethics of a cage bird

As I write this I am peering through the bars of a cage, inside a lovebird flutters, a bored but regal smile perched on her immobile bill. She is a handsome creature, House Sparrow sized, orange face roosting beady black eyes and the bill, pale and conical, from which issue a variety of querying chirps. Her tail is of medium length, triangular but stubby. Grey feet prop up her light green stomach matching her green hood of feathers. The blue rump is obscured by emerald wings and I find that I have exhausted my ability to describe this marvelous creature’s outward countenance. Now to her emotional appearance I shall leap. 

It would be inaccurate to describe this burbling bundle of vibrant feathers as gallant, for she will squawk and flutter with a great deal of agitation to anything in the least varying from its regular course. For after all, a bird is but flesh and blood. But yet again this same bird will happily attack the household dog, an act which could be depicted only as bold (or stupid). She is safe in her cage, her room and her house, and she takes full advantage of this knowledge whenever the chance of escape from behind the bars arises. Once free she will flap and chirrup her way about the house, enjoying the only freedom she knows, a safe one. For as well may be expected she realizes nothing of the outward world, a world beyond the house. Windows mean nothing to a bird! 

To her she has freedom on a regular basis, for she leaves her cage when ever it is cleaned, and to perfect her comfortable position she has safety, food, water and a nest of shredded newspaper. She lives a life of perfect bliss and near complete unknowing. What more could one desire? 

To state my argument clearly; captivity without knowledge of freedom is freedom ... in fact with the safety which is received by most pets it could be arguably stated that this is the perfect freedom.

Birds for birding but how so?

“Dogs for dogging, Hands for clapping, Birds for birding, Fish for fishing”

~ The Beatles - Revolution 9

It would be a waste of time to discuss each of these lines “Dogs for dogging” etc. Instead I shall focus on the one which would concern the members of this fine organization, obviously “Birds for birding”.
For many years a dispute has raged freely through the feather seeking ranks. That being the question of the function of the bird in our hobby. Most (lets call them Team #1) will passionately argue for the virtue of the view, seeing these beautiful beasts in their natural environments. What could be more pleasant then with a teasing sea-wind frolicking over your broad-rimmed hat, peering over a chaotic landscape of wave-washed rocks to the pale form of a Glaucous Gull. Chancing upon a singing Cerulean Warbler in a dancing beam of oak-tinted sunlight high on tree, high on hillside, leaves one high on life.
Not to say this is not what Team #2 seeks just as eagerly, but for them the wind, the trees, the glaring sunlight; all

these are distractions and disadvantages. They seek the bird for the immaterial collection (the check-list). They strive only for a bigger list. To them more birds means more skill and in general that is the case.
These are birders with a goal and this in reality is not necessarily a bad thing.
I am not a lister but that is not to say that I don’t enjoy another name on my catalog. I find the process of keeping a list up to date tedious and boring. I have many incomplete lists!
I have no argument with a bicker in fact I find few things more pleasing then a good quarrel. But from my perspective this altercation seems lame and often even stupid. I don’t wish to take sides but I think I must. The ideas coming from Team #1 are in eliminating listers damaging the only thing they stand for more. This is, as may have been surmised, the recruiting the of the next generation of pale-necks. It seems to me ridiculous to expect a kid would ever appreciate the observation of even the most colorful birds enough to see the cheapest of field guides a worthy buy without already being deeply involved with the hobby. Team #1 seems to have unwittingly stumbled into a catch-22 of their very own; for they hate listers birding and love kids birding but to be a birder a kid must almost certainly be a lister.

Children should see birding as a game and nothing more; later they can be easily encouraged to enjoy the birds.
I recall when I was small, about 8 years-old, and I had just begun birding that to me the list was at the heart of the hobby, the joy of birds only later grew on me. “Gently rising, rising, rising, as a stiff bloated corpse gently rises above an oily river that flows under endless onyx bridges to a black, putrid sea”.
Team #1 should learn to except these rats in the walls (ie. Team #2) as Team #2 seemingly has excepted them in turn. Have you ever heard the argument from a point of a lister?

"Those are my principles, and if you don't like them... well, I have others." ~ Grouch Marx 

A post of mine on The Eyrie

Sorry for not posting recently for once I can seriously say I have been busy (please disregard every other time I have said that). As you may or may not know (probably the latter) I have for the last two years been a "young editor", though all I actually do is write posts, for the American Birding Association young birder blog The Eyrie. Seeing that this blog has been a miserably dull read of late I shall give you a link to my most recent post on The Eyrie:

http://birding.typepad.com/youngbirders/2013/06/birding-past-present-and-future-challenges-and-opportunities-a-young-birders-report-from-the-21st-an.html.

Gooseberry Neck May/10/13

Golden sunflakes danced off the roofs of cars scattered through the parking lot, although eye-catching it was not eye-holding, the glimmer of a White-crowned Sparrows feathers were far too riveting.

It was just one of a surprisingly large mix of sparrow species in the area. Chipping Sparrows skipping past White-throated Sparrows who in turn danced among the Savannah and Song Sparrows. The latter, who's song could easily be heard anywhere on the preserve, outnumbered only by the gaily frolicking Yellow Warblers. 

White-crowned Sparrow

The sparrows amused us but for a short while. The feathered envoys of Gooseberry Neck called us away from the parking lot with angelic voices. We tripped merrily down the path gawking at the blazing red shoulders of blackbirds, the burbles of goldfinches. A terrible cry emerged from my brother breaking my extreme gawk. He had just seen the alien feathers and the corresponding body of a Kentucky Warbler wing into a patch thick bushes and, in the same manner, away. All far before I had a chance to get on it. A missed lifer.

We continued forth, our course unchanged by the sorrow that had descended upon my walk like a wicked voorish dome in Deep Dendo. "The black and green scarecrow is sadder than me, but now he's resigned to his fate, cause life's not unkind - he doesn't mind", so straightening my back and adjusting my binocular harness I followed in the footsteps of the straw-man. I returned to the Palace of San-Souci aided by a Chestnut-brown Canary one of my very favorite species. 

The clattering song of a Virginia Rail jarred me from my mind where I'd been going through an assortment of Led Zeppelin lyrics in hopes of finding one useful in just such a blog post as this. "In a tree by the brook, there's a songbird who sings, sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiven" and all that. As I was saying, a Virginia Rail sang, surprisingly from some scrubby bushes a understanding between feather and twig that I had previously no knowledge of, and god was it a frustrating one. This bird was feet from the path and completely hidden. As I gnashed my teeth and stamped my feet it continued it's unforgiving squawk.

Least Terns called from the beach. Cormorants, antediluvian in all uses of the delightful word, mused on their shrouded past as I swirled through the land of aves accompanied by trusted binoculars. 

I dashed from bird to bird, dodging all distractions. I scented feathers and a nearby Ruby-throated Sparrow laughed, and said "pray, what may that creature be doing? I rise but a few yards in the air and settle down again, after flying around among the reeds. That is as much as anyone would want to fly. Now, wherever can this creature be going to?" In fact I was bounding to a pair of lifers although this was not a realization I had at that point come to.

Grasshopper Sparrow

The first lifer to materialize was a Bay-breasted Warbler. A handsome male who perched with all the grace that only a warbler can maintain for any great length of time (especially the Grace's Warbler) in the shrubbery along the path and right next to parking lot where the sunflakes still lazily glittered on the locomotives. "Sing your song, don't be long" I begged but the elegant bird refused and with a courteous nod, flitted away on equally elegant wings. I peered through the freshly deserted branches and spied a sight which thrilled me to the marrow. Overhead the gull hung 
motionless upon the air and deep beneath the rolling waves in labyrinths of coral caves, the echo of a distant tide comes willowing across the sand but I was far too enthralled with the Grasshopper Sparrow who had suddenly confronted my feather weary (but still hungry) eye's. Suddenly focused I gave not a damn about anything else (even Pink Floyd). This dainty mirage (which was not in fact anything but reality) hopped up onto a rock, glanced our way and then vanished with an imagined "pop". As our heartbeats slowed the waves rolled by and life flowed on, screaming through the sunlit sky, momentarily stranding us in our frozen bubble of awe. Thankfully we were able to catch back up with reality accompanied with some documentary photographs of the lifer duo.

Bay-breasted Warbler

"Look at the sky, look at the ocean, isn't it good?" But for me birding is far better...

Scusset Beach, Cape Cod Canal, Sandwich, MA March 30-31, 2013

Nature is unkind: it treats creation like sacrificial straw dogs. But birding is not creation. It is a hobby and it's paths not so harshly ruled. Thank God for that. Birding would be a far more challenging (perhaps even dull) sport otherwise.

A preening (female) Red-breasted Merganser

With voices rivaling Comrade Butt himself eiders merrily whooped. Gulls wheeled and the Yellow-crowned Night-Heron, who had been kindly shown to us by a fellow binocular-wearer (thanks Linda), sat in a corner, on some sun-baked rocks and moped about his lot. He was a drab bird in general compared to some of his brothers, birds that had cured the kings pile and now live wealthy, frivolous lives in the mangrove swamps of the Caribbean, no this was a sorry specimen. His blood-shot eyes drifted wearily over his watchers, he didn't care to be the feathered-center of attention, but presumed not to interfere with his seeming fame, as it seemed to be the only way they would ever retire and they did, departing the scene with a flourish of drab garments followed by his satisfied gaze. 

The ducks sped with the foam scuds through the bloated canal which swam in and out of focus as I turned the focus wheel of my binoculars. The unique features of Common Eider were very much in evidence as were the equally strange moldings of Red-breasted Mergansers. A machine of fish-seekers and subsequent killers - nice, nice, very nice, so many different birds in the same device. But one individual was lacking in my view, the bird who, though not one to gain stardom, was making the Cape Cod birding community very happy. 

He was a King Eider and according to the birders asked, a bird who had just flown the canal, for the sake of the marina on the bay, a scopes view away, a scope which was currently lying battered and broken at home. Although my life list would not be lengthened by the end of the day, I left with a sun-dried murre's head in my pocket, a Purple Sandpiper and a three scoter (species) list; it was a grand day. 

On the matter of the murre's head there is not much to tell. After walking about a mile down the canal bike path to Scusset Beach, we strolled down the beach a little way musing on the odd, almost plover-like behavior of a pair of Savannah Sparrows foraging along the shore line. I finally happened upon an intact specimen, one of the many murres washed up dead along the beach, presumably the remains of some recent storm or other. His half fleshless head was too tempting a display for my bedroom and as he wouldn't be needing it any more I took the liberty of removing it with a professional twist. No more will the voice of this (unidentified) murre pollute the air, instead his mighty stench will pollute my gentle (?) snores, my lungs will wreak of this would-have-been lifer, long after his skull has crumbled to a powder on my desk. 

Because we had missed the King Eider today, my grandparents offered a berth to me and my brother in order to make a return visit to the location on the following morn.

It was 9:30am and with the sun's dazzling rays dancing over the still water and black-and-white backs of eider our collective pulse quickened to keep time with crunches of a crow rejuvenating his tissues on a crab in the bushes. We were birding once more. Over the mountains the watchers were watching, but we didn't mind. We were enthralled by the checkerboard pattern of a loon's back. Our revery was cut short however when the sleek looking bird dove to be replaced by an equally cool Red-breasted Merganser, a bird who puts the meaning into the word "freak" and almost as much into "punk".  As startling as he was, the flight of a swan was more so, and we were soon lost in our binoculars and the aerodynamic feathers of a Mute Swan. A flat trill in the distance sounded parula-like, but it was still quite early for such a species and the sight of the impenetrable wall of briars and cedars was too daunting to attempt an entry. The suspected singer was left unconfirmed.

Through the croaking of grackles and the more distant chirping of peepers my sibling’s horrific call rang clear - the King had been located!

Feathers dazzled the eye's of the pale-necks: blue, green, orange, white, black; he was a grandiose sight indeed and he knew it. His majestic sails curled with pride. He was a gentle bird but not a humble one. He took full responsibility for the glimmer of his feathers. he gloated and all the common folks looked at him and said "he is so beautiful that I am sure he has a long Latin name". He was King of the canal.

A barge barreled pass and a flock of terrified eider fled the scene, leaving the birders with a few backlit photos, some fairly poor views and, for some, a lifer.

My internal economy had been once more stabilized, for such is the power of birding.

Midnight Memories with Plumes

I once found a sticker pasted to the underside of a Cambridge theater toilet seat. On its weathered face were printed the words "Listen: Billy Pilgrim has become unstuck in time". I am quite fond of the memory of that particular sticker as well as the Marx Brothers movie which shortly followed it's discovery. Those memories swirl through my head now and blend with vibrant feathers like a mirage swirling through the darkened hours of this sleepless midnight.

A Painted Bunting flashes its vibrant colors into my binoculars. Closer to home my mind replays the song of the Hermit Thrush, sung from a distant mountain top. Spangled in the shade of stunted trees a Mourning Warbler hops from branch to branch followed by the chirping of House Sparrows in a city park. Navy blue clad Harlequin Ducks frolic in the surface thrown by the waves that glance against the faltering rocks. "Phoebe" says my memory. A Night-Heron's shrouded form hunches on a distant dock, unaware of the elvin terns that dance over his black-crowned head.

The handsome head of a Tree Swallow appears from the dark confines of a bird house, its stunning blue and white plumage giving it an almost penguin like appearance, but any similarities with those denizens of the south is ruled out by the mirage of metallic feathers that rear out of the dunes of a Cape Cod beach. Swallows vanish and sound appears; the morning chorus flutes through my brain.

Listen: John Shamgochian has become unstuck in his mind.