A Disquieting Winter of Rarities

This late autumn/early winter period at my regular birding park on Lake Ontario’s north shore was kind of a festival of rarities. It seemed like every time I went there, a crowd of other birders was gathered for one or another bird that really wasn’t supposed to be there. I saw a Red Phalarope (Phalaropus fulicarius), a small group of Harlequin Ducks (Histrionicus histrionicus), a King Eider (Somateria spectabilis), and a Northern Pintail (Anas acuta), all either far off their regular ranges, or staying north far too long.

A female King Eider enjoying freshwater crayfish for a change.

Phalaropes and Eiders are salt-water birds whose ranges tend to the Atlantic and Pacific edges and the Arctic top of North America. They are not great wanderers of the inland waterways. Harlequin Ducks are fine with fresh water – they love rough river waters, and come a ways inland, but do not generally visit the Great Lakes. I saw a number of them in Iceland this past summer, but did not imagine I would repeat the feat in Toronto. The Northern Pintail is at home on and around Lake Ontario, but it was home alone when photographed by Toronto birders, having for some reason sat out the migration that took its many pintailed companions farther south for the cold months.

As you can see by this range map (thanks to Cornell University’s All About Birds site), my Eider (marked with a red x) was spotted many hundreds of kilometers from where it should have been, and paddling in the wrong kind of water.

Then, in January, at my small northern Ontario getaway of Thessalon, I was surprised to see a more varied population of feed-station visitors than I’ve come to expect. Braving Algoma’s deep freeze temperatures, and competing for seed with the standard Black-capped Chickadee (Poecile atricapillus) and Northern Cardinal (Cardinalis cardinalis) were migratory songbirds like the Fox Sparrow (Passerella iliaca), Gray Catbird (Dumetella carolinensis), and White-throated Sparrow (Zonotrichia albicollis), all of whom should long before have vacated Lake Huron’s north shore for warmer climes.

Insect-eating Gray Catbird where no insects are active. What?! I have added dried mealworms to my feed, so it should be good for the season. You do what you can.

The Catbird at my feeder is well within its breeding season range (red section), but this is not breeding season. It really should be enjoying the insects of Florida and Central America right now. © All About Birds

But maybe climes are the issue at play. The North American fall and winter have been much milder than usual. Northern local newspapers that might normally feature photos of impressive ice-fishing catches are instead filled with dire warnings to stay off inadequately frozen lakes because of the danger of falling through. The settled science of El Niño/La Niña temperature oscillation in the Pacific Ocean may explain a single warmer winter here and there, but with Nasa scientists confirming that 2023 was the hottest year on record, it seems we may be adjusting migratory bird charts for the foreseeable future.

A Fox Sparrow showing winter camouflage best adapted to snowless thickets.

Close to its wintering grounds… but not quite. The White-throated Sparrow decides to stick it out up north.

The great band of boreal forest between most of Canada’s population centers and the Arctic seems to be a great divider for northern and southern tending birds, with my northern home on a kind of a borderline. Perhaps I’m in for a lot more crossover in coming years.

This chart from NASA shows the rapid increase in average monthly temperatures from 1880 until 2023… the warmest year on record.

Are the birds trying to tell us something? Perhaps we should listen.

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“Those who have no involvement in creating the problem are the most affected, while those with the capacity to arrest the slide dither.”

— Desmond Tutu, speaking about climate change.

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Bonus Birds! The Return of the Trumpeters

This Trumpeter Swan (Cygnus buccinator) had a lot to say as it flew over me and some other birders last weekend.

In the past few weeks, I’ve sealed my bird-nerdism for good by signing on to evening webinars about birds and the joys of wandering among them. Last week’s was an inspiring talk from the Trumpeter Swan Society (TSS), which I hope will counter any feelings of dread and hopelessness that may have arisen from the main posting here. The talk is now on YouTube, and can be accessed by anyone at the link back there at the beginning of this sentence.

The TSS was founded in 1968 (when I was three years old) with a mission to “assure the vitality and welfare of wild Trumpeter Swans.” Trumpeters are a beautiful North American species — our largest native waterfowl — and were almost wiped out by hunting and habitat destruction in the late 1800s.

Trumpeter flyover on the north shore of Lake Ontario. A triumph of species rehabilitation.

Focused work from concerned naturalist and environmentalists have restored a healthy Trumpeter population that is tracked and protected so that following generations will have these magnificent birds to admire.

The TSS webinar detailed the work done to restore Trumpeter populations in Ontario, Canada. A couple days after attending the talk, I was treated to a thrilling flyover by a group of Trumpeters on the frigid north shore of Lake Ontario.

HawkWatch 2023 — The Raptoring

Back at the turning of the calendar from August to September two different aerial phenomena visited the Greater Toronto Area.

There was the Labour Day weekend Air Show at the Canadian National Exhibition, an event that inspires as much ire as it does wonder; and then the High Park HawkWatch — far less controversial (and loud).

US Navy Blue Angels practicing above Lake Ontario ahead of the 2023 CNE Air Show.

A Red-tailed Hawk surveying Toronto’s Leslie Street Spit for something to eat.

I spend a lot of time over Labour Day weekend every year trying to avoid fights on social media because, well, I kind of like the Air Show, while many of my Toronto neighbours despise it. Too noisy, too fumey, too militaristic. I get it. And yet.

I built airplane models as a kid (and as an adult), am fascinated by World War Two and, were it not for a debilitating phobia about heights and flying, might have become a pilot. I love the thought of flying so much, I don’t hesitate to down a couple tranquillizers and take the window seat whenever possible on commercial flights. I watch aerial acrobatics with a mixture of envious passion and gut-sinking fear. Is it any wonder I would eventually find my way to birding, given how much time I’ve spent with my head in the skies?

A model of a Royal Air Force Supermarine Spitfire I built while I had Covid. This little baby now flies from copper wire in my northern workshop, where I occasionally bash it with a ladder while moving things around. Tough little aircraft, the Spitfire.

But yeah, humans have spent too much time figuring out ways to deliver death and destruction from those same skies. There’s no arguing against that fact. So mostly I just watch the amazing maneuvers and keep my wonder and excitement to myself.

The annual HawkWatch, on the other hand… who doesn’t love spotting a soaring raptor on its autumn migration? Migrating raptor counts take place all along the annual flyways, and the Toronto Ornithological Club has hosted one at High Park’s “Hawk Hill” for the past thirty years. Hawk Hill is little more than a bump on the immediate surrounding landscape, but it sits a good 38 meters above Lake Ontario to the south, and provides a remarkably wide vista showing incoming raptors riding the winds from the north. Birds of prey heading south for the winter in this part of the world reach the shoreline of massive Lake Ontario and tend to turn west to get to an easier crossing of the big water. That makes Hawk Hill an ideal observation point as bird after birds soars past on a seemingly endless hawk highway.

Toronto’s Hawk Hill doesn’t look like much, but during migration season it is host to many a nerdy crowd.

I became aware of High Park’s HawkWatch from the TOC newsletter, and so sought out Hawk Hill a few times over the autumn watch period. My first visit was in early September, and I found myself (almost) alone on the hilltop not really knowing what I was looking for or how best to spot incoming birds. It’s much better, I later discovered, to show up when you know an official spotting and recording crew will be there. Look for a small crowd of birders with their scopes and binoculars trained on the eastern sky. I’m not bad at spotting and identifying birds that are actually close by, but the skill of noting an approaching raptor from kilometers away is going to take me a few years, I think. For now, I lean on the experience of those who have been watching the hawks for years.

While I didn’t see a whole lot in the air my first stop at Hawk Hill, I was greeted by this Cooper’s Hawk just hanging out like it owned the place.

“A couple of sharpies approaching just above the red oak,” someone calls out, and everyone turns their scopes in unison. Somehow, two tiny dots in the distance are recognizable as Sharp-shinned Hawks (Accipiter striatus).

The HawkWatch is another of the many citizen-scientist opportunities for amateur birders. I am proud to have contributed one Red-tailed Hawk (Buteo jamaicensis) to the cause this year. While everyone else was looking east, it soared in straight out of the north when I happened to be gazing around. I pointed it out to the official identifier and got a satisfying “Nice spotting,” as a reward.

My single contribution to 2023’s (official) raptor count. A Red-tailed Hawk soaring above High Park in early November.

Having watched a family of Cooper’s Hawks (Accipiter cooperii) nest and grow from spring through fall, helping out at HawkWatch 2023 was a nice full-circle experience. I don’t know if any of my Cooper’s will return in March, but at least I know a good spot to watch for other raptors come next September.

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“You cannot friend a hawk, they said, unless you are a hawk yourself, alone and only a sojourner in the land, without friends or the need of them.”

— Stephen King

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I officially made it to 200 bird species identified in 2023 on December 3rd, when I encountered a Long-eared Owl in Colonel Samuel Smith Park in Etobicoke. Not bad for my first year at this game. Happy holidays everyone!

With Snow Comes Snow Buntings… and Knowledge

There was a light skiff of snow on my Northern Ontario back deck the other morning. That’s the kind of early morning discovery that can take the emotions in a number of directions. As someone who deals with a lot of joint and back pain, the prospect of slipping and falling, and the certainty that there’s shoveling in my future, makes me want to go right back to bed. But I’m also a Canadian kid at heart, and those first few snowfalls always look beautiful to me.

My move to the north shore of Lake Huron means more expansive and snowier winters for me, but the change from urban to rural lifestyle also means the snow stays prettier longer. If you’ve ever trudged through three-day-old snow to a Toronto subway station, you know what I mean. Urban snow turns to gray slush in an awful hurry, whereas up here the view from my back windows remains pristine pretty much the entire winter. And if it ever does get dingy, more snow is usually not far off, so we get a fresh coat of the white stuff many, many (many) times.

And this year, I’ve discovered another reason to love snow. The same day the snow arrived in Thessalon, so too did a flock of Snow bunting (Plectrophenax nivalis). At first, I thought I was seeing a bunch of sparrows foraging on the side of the road, but as I approached they took off in a flurry of white bellies and black wingtips. This was not a familiar display, so I brought them closer with my camera, and also captured their song using the Merlin app. Sure enough, Snow buntings. I’ve now seen them every day of this week, and have learned to note their song as they flock overhead. I have found these little birds to be extremely difficult to photograph, as they are skittish, don’t allow a close approach, and fly rather frantically. I apologize for the fuzziness of my shots.

Range map of a very northern bird. Thanks to Cornell Labs’ All About Birds for the image.

According to my reading, these buntings may just be at the southernmost point of their fall migration. They nest and summer on the tundra of the far north, near the Arctic Circle, and then fly straight over the vast expanse of boreal forest like it is an inhospitable ocean, landing only where relatively unforested and flat land will provide them with the foraging grounds they prefer. You can see from the range map above (thanks Birds of the World) that Snow buntings are a northern bird, and unlike the many warblers that passed through Thessalon on their way to and from Central and South America, the bunting is just fine staying in colder climates at all times. In fact, they are physiologically adapted to the cold like few other birds, and have what the scientists call “significant thermogenic capacity.”  They make their own heat very well.

Note the fuzzy leg warmers.

This, of course, raises a troubling question. Can Snow buntings successfully adapt to a changing climate and rapidly warming environment? Cornell University lists Snow buntings as a species in Steep Decline, noting that research indicates a 38% population loss between 1970 and 2014. However, there has been uncertainty about the accuracy of this data because Snow buntings breed outside the range of the North American Breeding Bird survey. That concern for an accurate picture of bunting populations prompted the formation of the Canadian Snow Bunting Network CSBN, a group of professional northern researchers and volunteers dedicated to monitoring Snow bunting migration and wintering habits.

Distinctive white-edged tail pattern on that bunting missile launching away from the annoying photographer.

Originally organized by Professor Oliver Love at the University of Windsor the CSBN now publishes an annual newsletter report on Snow bunting banding and monitoring activities. This is a fascinating look at some frontline climate change research, as scientists study the feeding habits, fat-load maintenance during migration, and adaptive heat tolerance of these hardy, beautiful little birds.

Stay cool, little buntings.

I’m hoping this persistent flock of Snow buntings stays in Thessalon for the winter. I shall toss seeds on the ground generously.

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“Everyone likes birds. What wild creature is more accessible to our eyes and ears, as close to us and everyone in the world, as universal as a bird?”

— David Attenborough

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 Looking Forward to 2024

The highly coveted 2024 book (and bird) room calendar.

I am just five (5) birds away from counting a full 200 different species in 2023. When I started this birding adventure in Seattle on December 31, 2022, I could not have imagined I’d see that many different birds in just one year. Thinking about my bird count, I decided to celebrate and remember this remarkable year of birding by making myself a 2024 calendar from some of my favourite bird photos.

Memories of a year filled with birding discovery.

Family and close friends might expect to receive a copy of this calendar during the holiday season. I used the Shutterfly platform online, because they put together a sturdy beautiful product. I will study the service a bit more and see if there’s a way others might purchase their own copy of the calendar should they wish.

This is Not a Bird

This posting and newsletter has been delayed by a business trip to Belgium and the (nowadays, it seems) inevitable bout with Covid 19 that follows any extended contact with crowded airports and trans-Atlantic travel.

Two pieces of good news coming out of all that:

1. My illness was mild, and went away fairly quickly; and,

2. I gathered a number of Belgian birds onto my life list!

First, a bit about Brussels. I was in the Belgian capital the week of September 11, and enjoyed the very best weather of the European late-summer. Not sweltering as England had been in June, and with only the barest sprinkling of rain. I felt chronically under-styled in this most fashionable of cities, but that’s what you get when you dress like a birder in the moments work does not demand a tie. I ate frites and a street waffle (oh, my goodness), and found a couple of hours to wander through the exquisite René Magritte collection in the jumble of national galleries downtown.

A Eurasian Magpie (Pica pica), dressed appropriately formal, behind the European Parliament.

I attended a series of meetings with international writing and publishing colleagues to discuss the global state of library lending of books, and how authors are compensated for the marvelous free access public libraries provide. I won’t go too much into that here — though it is important behind-the-scenes business of which most lovers of books are blissfully unaware. Suffice it to say the meetings went very well, I managed to check in with rarely seen international colleagues, and came away with renewed purpose for the work I do.

And then, of course, there were the birds.

The wildly patterned Egyptian Goose (Alopochen aegyptiaca) is in most of the waterways of Brussels, many banded, so they seem to be citizens.

Brussels is blessed with a series of parks that range from formally ornamental to rambling and wild. The Belgians love their green space and water features, and judging by their appearance throughout all the public and gallery art I admired, Belgians love their birds. Bird depictions were everywhere — so much so, it quickly became a game for me to spot the bird in the artwork.

One of many depictions of the famous Le Chat comic character, by Phillippe Geluck in the Parc de Bruxelles. Note the small bird making life difficult for Le Chat.

A dove and an owl depicted in bold relief by Marnix D'Haveloose outside a Belgian library.

Let’s return to the great Belgian surrealist René Magritte. Famous for his depictions of faceless everymen, bowler hats, apples and pipes, Magritte had a few things to say about birds as well, as you can see from the image topping this post. Le Retour (Return) depicts a dove returning to its nest full of eggs. Or does it. Where is the dove? It is nothing more than the negative space between the nest-world at night and a bright daytime sky.

If it’s the fully feathered variety of bird you’re looking for, Magritte can do that as well, though they may not be doing typical birdlike things.

Magritte’s Le Voleur, 1967 is a bit more conventional, though one does imagine the eagle stretching out and swallowing the hot air balloon whole.

Magritte’s Dieu n'est pas un saint (God is not a saint) depicts a bird absconding with a shoe… as one does.

Brussels is a bit of dual world city itself. Very business-like with the bustle of European Parliament work always in the background, and yet extraordinarily relaxed as well, with streetcorner cafés and bars filled with patrons at most times in good weather. And then, of course, there are the parks. My thanks to the front-desk staff at my hotel for directing me first to the Bois de la Cambre, a sprawling Central Park-like ramble that starts at the end of Avenue Louise, and just keeps going until you are well and good outside of the city itself.

The small central lake in the middle of the Bois de la Cambre is home to a beer hall on an island, and many a Gray Heron (Ardea cinerea).

Instead of sleeping off jetlag on my first morning, I strolled the Bois with my eyes and ears open, and my camera at the ready. I was not disappointed. In all, Brussels gifted me with nine new birds for my Life List (probably could have spotted more, but I was there to work, after all), including the Common Firecrest (Regulus ignicapilla) and the Short-toed Treecreeper (Certhia brachydactyla). I also finally managed a photo of the raucous and swift-swooping Rose-ringed Parakeet (Psittacula krameria). I had heard these parakeets in London as well at the beginning of summer, but they were always too fast for the lens.

A couple of Rose-ringed parakeets take a very brief break from screeching about the place.

This charmingly ridiculous Eurasian moorhen (Gallinula chloropus) used its comical big green feet to run right up to me as I strolled the Bois.

My advice for potential visitors to Brussels:

Absolutely see the crowded and touristy old town with its narrow streets and cobblestones, but make sure you also get up the hill and wander the many parks dotted through the more businessy and residential parts of the city. Definitely, have a stroll through the Bois de la Cambre. Many charming birds, dogs, people, and an island beer garden await.

Bring home chocolate; not Covid.