Long Time, No See but Suddenly Heard

I experienced a remarkable moment this week when I heard a common nighthawk.

Before this week, my last sighting of a common nighthawk occurred in 2021. However, the moment I heard the bird's call on Tuesday evening, I knew what species it was without even looking. 

After I thought about it, I realized that the instant recognition of the sound showed how special the common nighthawk's call is to me. I must know it by heart. As a result, despite the fact that I don't hear it on a regular basis, I can immediately snap into awareness of it.

I've always loved common nighthawks. They have a unique look and a mesmerizing sound. Perhaps the irregularity with which I see them contributes to their specialness, yet I am still astonished at how quickly that call the other night pulled me into its world. It's as if common nighthawks have claimed a place in my unconscious.

A long time passed for me between sightings of common nighthawks, but the sudden impact of hearing the bird's call is timeless.

An Unexpected Boost to the Life List

When I decided to go birding yesterday, I had no idea I'd be adding two species to my life list.

The plan for the birding outing was just to go for a walk and maybe pick up a few species for my 2025 list. I figured I might see some familiar species that had recently arrived in the early days of spring migration.

Very early on though, the day indicated it would yield much more than I expected. Less than 30 minutes in, I had seen a mountain bluebird, my first ever sighting of that species. As the day continued, I saw more mountain bluebirds and several species that I could add to my 2025 list.

After three hours of birding, I was feeling very happy about the day's results. To be honest, I wasn't expecting anything else on the way back to my car. Then, another life-list addition presented itself. It was a northern shrike. What a day indeed!

I don't add new birds to my life list every day, so I was quite surprised to end up with two new ones in a single outing.

A Cool Way to End One Year and Start Another

The cold of late fall and winter brought me a warm-weather bird to end 2023 and start 2024.

Late last year, I began encountering a surprising bird on my jogs, and the sightings carried over into this year, giving me the opportunity to add the black phoebe to my list of birds identified in each year.

Historically, black phoebes have avoided the Pacific Northwest in all seasons, preferring the warmer climate farther south. In fact, the fist place I ever saw one was in San Diego. However, as the planet has warmed, the species has moved north. Some individuals even winter over in the PNW. For example, I saw one in western Washington in December 2021 during an especially cold and snowy spell.

Having seen a black phoebe in Washington before, I wasn't totally surprised to see one in November 2023. What stood out about this specimen was how long it stayed in the area. Starting on December 24, I saw it on every jog for six weeks. At first, I'd go out jogging and wonder if I'd see the bird. Then, the sightings became so reliable, I would jog with the anticipation of seeing the streak extended another day. Finally, on February 5, I didn't see it, and I've only seen it once since then. Still, the streak was fun while it lasted, and it allowed me to put the bird on my yearly list for both 2023 and 2024.

In a world changed by global warming, sightings of black phoebes in the PNW might become common, but I will always consider it a special memory how this individual visited in the cold months of the year.

A Sad but Important Record

Unfortunately, in the world of bird-watching, not all sightings bring joy.

To those of us who love and watch birds, seeing a dead one elicits great sadness. While it might be something we would rather forget, recording bird deaths generates important data that helps other birds.

Many bird-watchers use eBird to track their sightings of living birds. On the other hand, dBird.org helps collect data on where dead birds are found.

An online tool from the Audubon Society, dBird.org collects information that can be used to mitigate bird mortality, especially deaths related to collisions with windows.

Although seeing a dead bird produces a sense of loss and powerlessness, reporting the sighting to dBird.org can be a powerful way of helping other birds.

One Last Bird

As 2022 wound down, I added one last bird to my yearly bird-watching list.

During one of my jogs this month, a birding calling from the top of a tree caught my attention. I'd never seen the species before, but after collecting enough visual and auditory evidence, I was able to return home and identify it through the Cornell Lab of Ornithology's All About Birds site.

The bird was a Townsend's solitaire. It was the 82nd and last species I sighted this year and the only addition to my life list that 2022 brought.

This year of birding certainly ended on one good note.

Do You Know Where Your Migratory Bird Is?

Just in time for fall migration, the National Audubon Society has unveiled a great tool for understanding the journeys and challenges migratory birds face twice each year.

Bird Migration Explorer shows where species can be found at certain times. It also allows people to make larger connections by revealing other places a species they have seen can be found. Additionally, the tool has the ability to support conservation initiatives by allowing people to plan ways of helping birds make the difficult journeys. For more information, watch the video from the National Audubon Society below:

Birds have always served as great ambassadors for wildlife and the environment because people tend to encounter them more frequently than other types of wildlife. By offering the Bird Migration Explorer, the National Audubon Society helps people expand the impact a bird sighting has on them. To access the tool, click here.

Through this tool, we can learn more about birds, the interconnectedness of our environment, and our environmental influence.

Double Coverage

Maybe it was all the twos in 2022, but when this year began, my management of the Facebook page for the Black Hills Audubon Society hit a fitting milestone.

On May 22, 2019, I started managing the page. At that time, it had amassed 364 followers in a little more than seven years. By January 1, 2022, that number had doubled to 728.

To add to the excitement, January 2022 has given the page a good start toward the next 364. Already this month, the page has 21 new followers.

The growth during the last 32 months means a lot to me. It is great to see my work having an impact, and it is equally satisfying watching the organization's Facebook coverage expand.

You could say it's twice as nice when achievements like this go toward a good cause.

More Birds of a Feather

Facebook pages of bird-watching groups don't have followers; they have flocks. And the flock following the page for the Black Hills Audubon Society (BHAS) grew a lot last year.

In 2019, I started managing the BHAS Facebook page. As I reported last year, the page saw some encouraging results in the first eight months.

I am happy to report that the trend continued in 2020. From February 1, 2020, to February 1, 2021, the number of followers went from 472 to 619, an increase of 31.1 percent. Furthermore, from my first day back on May 22, 2019, the followers have increased 70.1 percent. Page likes show similar trends, increasing 29.5 percent (417 to 540) from February 1, 2020, to February 1, 2021, and 57.4 percent overall from May 22, 2019.

Despite having fewer birding events in 2020 because of COVID-19, the BHAS Facebook page continued attracting attention. I am proud of the results and look forward to continued growth in 2021.

I'll do my best to keep people flocking in.

An Intimate List

My 2020 birding list fell quite short of past efforts, but along with its abbreviated nature, it also carried an intimate feeling.

A Bewick's wren, one of three
wren species I saw in 2020.

After logging 118 species in 2019, 139 in 2018, and 120 in 2017, I only recorded 81 in 2020. Faced with COVID-19 restrictions, I never traveled far and didn't attend any outings with birding groups. Instead, I concentrated on my local populations. All that meant a smaller total of species for the year.

As it turned out though, I felt a special closeness to the birds I did see. They were around all the time, and I didn't have to work to see them. Of the 81 total species, 79 of them were seen in a four-mile radius, and the other two were within a 20-mile radius. What is more, I didn't add any species to my life list, and I saw all 81 in familiar spots. That might sound bland, but it wasn't. Rather, a bond developed: These birds and I shared the same habitat, and we could count on seeing each other. I think it gave me a deeper understanding and appreciation of life in my immediate area.

Even with a list full of the usual suspects, I can single out some highlights. I saw three very different owl species: the northern saw-whet, the great horned, and the barred. Also, I tallied five species of woodpecker, including the red-breasted sapsucker, the pileated woodpecker, the hairy woodpecker, the downy woodpecker, and the northern flicker. In the same field, I logged both a tundra swan and a trumpeter swan. I had opportunities to see Townsend's warblers and hermit warblers in my yard. These were among seven species of warbler I sighted. Additionally, I had three types of flycatcher in the area.

I may not have set any records or broken new ground with my 2020 birding list, but I certainly got to know my closest avian neighbors, and they are a big part of how I'll remember last year.

Birding Field Trips: A How-To Guide

"Field trip!" Remember those two magic words from school? 

Now, thanks to the Black Hills Audubon Society (BHAS), it's possible to recapture the power of field trips, and this time, you get to pick your destination. Meanwhile, you can experience some first-rate bird-watching. 

Because of the need to social distance during the pandemic, BHAS canceled all of its guided birding outings for the foreseeable future. However, the organization remained committed to giving people opportunities to see birds, introducing do-it-yourself (DIY) field trips. 

To foster DIY birding, BHAS began sending out scouts who report back from various birding locations in southwestern Washington. These reports give people all the information they need to know about how to access the locations, what to do while there, and which birds have been seen there recently. By taking the place of a human guide, the scouting reports allow people to continue birding the places BHAS frequents under normal circumstances. To access the reports, click here.

After you find a location you'd like to visit, you can even yell, "Field trip!" if you feel like it.

So Many, So Close

Some of the most rewarding journeys don't take us far from home.

Yesterday, I sighted a willow flycatcher. It was about 200 yards from my house, and it was my 70th bird species of the year.

Under normal circumstances, that number probably wouldn't be a big deal. In fact, it might have even disappointed me. After all, last year, I sighted my 70th bird on April 30, and by June 4, 2019, I had logged 98 species.

A Wilson's warbler, one of my reliable locals.

The COVID-19 coronavirus changed things this year though. With social distancing restrictions and the cancelation of group-birding events, my focus shifted to local birds. Those 70 species have all been sighted within a four-mile radius.

I have found different kinds of satisfaction in my 2020 approach to birding. First, it is relaxing to let the birds come to me. Second, some unexpected sightings (like a northern saw-whet owl and a hermit warbler) sparkled with additional specialness. Third, growing my species list with such constraints became at least as fun as the usual challenge of going out and finding as many species as possible. Finally, the local focus has helped increase my sense of home and place. All of the species I have seen this year are ones I've seen in the past. They are familiar faces because most are frequent visitors, so they help give my immediate area its character. Constraining my birding boundaries helps clarify what birds I can expect here, and in turn, those birds better define what home is. That's a very nice result.

Understanding home and our place in the world is a journey in and of itself.

A Big Leap Day

What's one more day? This year, it means February sightings of violet-green swallows and a northern saw-whet owl.

If this had been a normal year, my last February addition to my yearly birding list would have been a pine siskin on February 27. Not too bad. Pine siskins are an understated bird with a fun song and a flash of color for those who look closely enough. This being a leap year though, last month ended in an unusually spectacular fashion.

A violet-green sighting in February would have been enough to merit recognition for February 29, 2020. I was shocked to see the birds on my jog. They were two weeks earlier than I have ever seen their species before. That alone made the day a major birding moment. It even seemed fitting because earlier in the month, I marked the very rare universal calendar palindrome of 02//02/2020 with an addition to my yearly birding list. That day, I saw a big group of bushtits (also on my jog), forever commemorating a calendar event that hadn't happened in more than 900 years.

A northern saw-whet owl I sighted in June 2014.

Leap day apparently wanted to make sure it went down in history too though. Sitting at my desk around 9:30 p.m., I heard a long series of low "too" sounds like a faraway, old train whistle. At first, I thought it came from some alarm, machine, or device in the distance. After considering it a while longer, I thought it might be a northern saw-whet owl, so I went outside and tried to call it in with recorded saw-whet sounds from the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. Within a few minutes, an owl flew over my head, eventually landing in a tree in the yard. It was my first sighting of the species since 2014. While watching the bird in the yard, I also heard another farther away. What an exhilarating end to an unusual month!

February 2020 certainly made its extra day count for a lot on my birding list.

Taking Flight

After a few practice flights, my work managing the Black Hills Audubon Society's (BHAS) Facebook page has begun to take off in earnest.

When I started the work for BHAS last May, I blogged about it here. During the course of the ensuing nine months, I tried a few different things to engage and increase the organization's followers. Starting with 364 followers, I saw a small increase initially, but as I fine-tuned my strategies for making posts, the follower totals and the engagements began to soar.

November represented the point at which everything started to come together. The daily reach of posts dwarfed the rate seen earlier, going from 27 on January 1, 2019, to a current high of 377 on February 10, 2020, (see Graph 1). Likewise, the number of people viewing the site jumped up, particularly when it came to people viewing the homepage and scheduled events (see Graph 2). Paralleling these trends, the number of followers saw a marked rise. Currently, the page has 484 followers, an increase of nearly 33 percent in nine months. What's more, all of those growth points coincided with an uptick in people attending the organization's events, and many of those individuals credited the Facebook posts with bringing them there.

The successes on the BHAS Facebook page have also brought two intangible results. First, I have thoroughly enjoyed doing the work. It's a great combination of strategy and fun. Second, because of the measurable results in followers, engagements, and event attendance, managing the page has been very fulfilling. I can see the impact of my work and know that it's helping a great organization.

Stay tuned to see how high this project flies.

In a Flourish, Not a Flash

A lot can happen in nine years; but in the case of Townsend's warbler, a lot more can happen in a couple of months.

My first sighting of a Townsend's warbler occurred on January 1, 2011, an unexpected burst of yellow in the middle of winter. The second sighting did not happen in a flash though. In fact, so much time passed after the first sighting without a recurrence that I began to consider it an accident.

On November 24, 2019, I saw a Townsend's warbler
for the first time in nearly nine years.

When I next saw a Townsend's warbler, the sighting kicked off a flourish of activity. On November 24, 2019--almost nine years after my first sighting--I spotted a Townsend's warbler in the yard. I didn't see it again for a while, so I figured I had just had another flash encounter. Then, on December 19, things started to become extremely interesting. In the middle of a downpour, four Townsend's warblers (at least one adult male, one adult female, and possibly two juveniles) landed in the yard. I've seen at least one on three separate occasions since then, including three birds yesterday. One even registered itself as the seventh species I saw on New Year's Day when I began my yearly bird count afresh. Considering the long wait between my first and second sightings, this feels like a barrage of action.

Once elusive, the Townsend's warbler has turned into a reliable visitor. With its striking color, it has added variety to the usual core of avian yard frequenters. To have the warblers stick around for this long at this time also means that I can count the species on my yearly list for both 2019 and 2020. I am thoroughly enjoying their consistent presence, and I hope they'll stay for a while yet.

Although it took a long time to see another Townsend's warbler after my first brief sighting, the string of encounters since November has supplied enough joy to more than make up for the extended absence.

First Sight and Further Reflection

A brown pelican fishing a Moclips.

One of the birds I saw on a recent trip to the beach took me about a second to identify; another bird required a couple of days and input from two other birders.

As I walked toward the ocean at Moclips two weeks ago, I saw the unmistakeable profile of a brown pelican flying down the beach. Just like that, I had added to my 2019 birding list.

Later, while wading at the waterline, I added to the list again. This time though, I wouldn't know for sure that I had added to it until more than 24 hours later. That's because the second identification was difficult. Among a group of western sandpipers and least sandpipers, I saw a strange interloper. Like the other two species around it, this bird was a smallish shorebird, but it was slightly larger than the others and had distinct plumage. I took some pictures of it for later identification.

An early-arriving sanderling.

The pictures didn't help much even when I consulted my field guides or online sources like All About Birds. Finally, I sent a picture to a contact at the Black Hills Audubon Society. She guessed it was a sanderling but wasn't sure because the pattern on its breast was a bit unusual, so she sent the picture to another birder, who confirmed it was a sanderling. Besides having slightly different plumage, the bird was also an early arrival on its migration and marked my very first sighting of the species; so the identification was definitely worth the wait.

Whether I know it at first sight or need further reflection to identify it, any bird is a fun and rewarding addition to my birding list.

By the Sound of It

What looks like frustration but sounds like satisfaction? Bird-watchers know the answer is a flycatcher.

Willow flycatcher at the Billy Frank Jr.
Nisqually National Wildlife Refuge.

Many types of flycatchers look maddeningly indistinguishable from each other. Generally, they appear very plain with many of the species lacking clear, visual identifiers. Using sight alone, about all people can be sure of is that they saw some sort of flycatcher. (The birds do have a distinct profile with a large head and a common habit of perching near the tops of trees, flying out to catch insects, and returning to their perch to repeat the hunt.) But was it a willow flycatcher, a Pacific-slope flycatcher, or maybe a western wood-pewee? Even with photographic evidence, a birder can spend hours trying and failing to decide.

I speak from experience about the vexing nature of identifying flycatchers by sight. Until the last couple of years, the difficulty in doing so nearly beat me into submission. The longer the identification process takes, the more upsetting it becomes until it reaches the dejecting feeling of failure: There's a bird right in front of you, waiting to be added to your list, but you just can't make a certain determination, so the opportunity is lost. After several failures like that, you kind of don't want to bother with flycatchers anymore.

Then, there's the peace, joy, and empowerment of identifying flycatchers by sound. Learning their songs and calls is really the only way to deal with flycatchers, and once you've done that, you might as well be the smartest, most powerful person in the world because that's how it feels. I've gone from staring at photographs in exasperation to walking along and making an identification without even turning my head to see the bird that made the sound. By itself, the contrast in processes and outcomes is enough to put a smile on my face, but the knowledge of the birds' sounds carries something more powerful: the confidence of connecting to and understanding the surrounding environment. It's like knowing some great secret of life, a secret those confounding flycatchers have kept all this time.

Trying to identify flycatchers by sight is an aggravating process that makes you feel like you can't do anything, but learning to identify them by sound gives you a feeling of nirvana and omnipotence.

On the Song of the Swainson's Thrush

Swainson's thrush.

Nothing humankind has done or will ever do could rival the ancient power in the song of the Swainson's thrush.

If that sound were to disappear from Earth, I think the planet would collapse upon itself in great throes of agony.

Just the Little Things and a Very Big Mountain

Yesterday morning, I shared Mount St. Helens with some of its small residents and not much else.

I first noticed the lack of human activity when I didn't see another eastbound car on Highway 504. Considering that the highway leads to the popular Johnston Ridge Observatory, I found its emptiness quite a surprise. My amazement grew when I saw only one car in the parking lot at Coldwater Lake and then no cars at the lot for the Hummocks Trailhead. I might as well have been the only human in the entire Mount St. Helens National Volcanic Monument. That's such an exhilarating feeling.

A warbling vireo along the
Hummocks Trail at Mount St. Helens.

Once on the Hummocks Trail though, I was anything but alone. Birds, including a large group of warbling vireos that kept me company to the base of Johnston Ridge, sang all around, and seemingly, every boulder had a chipmunk atop it. One of these rodents was the smallest of its species that I have ever seen. Its tail could not have been longer than two inches.

Part way up Johnston Ridge, I stopped to photograph Mount St. Helens and the surrounding area. Eventually, another hiker, the only one I would see in five hours on the trail, came along. We talked about the mountain for a little while, and when he left, I sat and watched clouds move around the crater. In the meantime, a western meadowlark started singing nearby--a retiring bird with a big voice providing the soundtrack for one of the most powerful places on Earth. It was a timeless moment, and with the other hiker well up the hill, it belonged to me alone. All I had to do was enjoy it, and that's just what I did.

That other hiker most certainly also missed the toad I saw on my way back down the ridge. I only happened to catch a glimpse of it before it retreated into its hole along the trail, but I couldn't believe my luck in the discovery. The toad had been warming itself in the morning sun, looking out on the mountain at the same time I had been. Mountain watching with a toad--how cool! A bit farther down the trail, I saw a lizard scurrying on the rocks. Overall, in the absence of people, the landscape teamed with activity for me to observe.

By the time I returned to my car, at least 10 other vehicles occupied the lot, and more sat in the lot at Coldwater Lake. However, even when I recorded my very first sighting of a Vaux's swift over the lake, I don't think anyone else noticed. That little bird flitted and swooped overhead, but like so many other events around the mountain yesterday, the sighting was all mine.

To me, yesterday will always be the day I experienced Mount St. Helens with just the little things.

New Horizons on Feathered Wings

From scholarship to writing and public relations, I've done a lot of work in communication, but starting today, I have the opportunity to do something new.

A yellow warbler I photographed on a recent outing
with the Black Hills Audubon Society.

Despite my time in public relations and my experiences teaching best practices for using social media and even employing Twitter and Pinterest as teaching tools in my classes, I have never managed an organization's social media. That changed today when I started managing the Facebook page for the Black Hills Audubon Society (BHAS).

Envirofinn reflects my affinity for birds. Many of the posts focus on bird-related topics, including my successes in bird-watching during the last few years. On one occasion, I even blogged about a birding event BHAS led. The organization does a nice job of making birding fun and accessible, so when they put out a call for help with their Facebook page, I didn't hesitate to offer my time.

With my background in communication, I can help promote BHAS's events and overall presence. In return, I now have the chance to use social media strategically for a topic I love. I couldn't wait to make my first post, which went up this morning. If you'd like to keep up with the posts and what BHAS is doing, click here.

When looking for new horizons, follow the birds.

Soaring to New Heights

My 139th and final species for 2018,
the golden-crowned sparrow.

From an Anna's hummingbird on January 1 to a golden-crowned sparrow on December 27, 2018 took flight and became a record-shattering year of bird-watching for me.

Starting with the Anna's hummingbird bright and early on the first day, the year wasted no time earning its wings. By the end of the first day, I had 18 species sighted, and before February began, I had 37.

I flew past my previous best of 120, set in 2017, on August 7 and kept going. A final trip to the Billy Frank Jr. Nisqually National Wildlife Refuge on December 27 gave me 12 new species to end the year, putting me at a total of 139. The last of these birds, the golden-crowned sparrow, presented itself at the end of the day just before I reached the refuge parking lot. It seemed like a good punctuation mark for a great year.

The year featured 14 species I had never previously seen. These included the lesser scaup, the blue-winged teal, the field sparrow, the Lincoln's sparrow, the white-throated sparrow, the lark sparrow, the Harris's sparrow, the wood thrush, the hooded merganser, the ring-necked duck, the northern shoveler, the northern pintail, and the greater yellowlegs. One particularly spectacular life-list addition was the sandhill crane, which I blogged about seeing here.

Besides the new personal best and the life-list additions, I had another major highlight. During 11 days (May 4-14), I saw 43 species. That's almost four species per day and nearly one-third of my total for the whole year. It was such an exciting time. I just kept racking up the identifications, and when the run was over, I knew it would be a special year. At that point, I already had 107 species on my list, that new record close at hand.

Last year, my bird-watching reached new heights, and it's up, up, and away for 2019.