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Rambling

May 11, 2024 John Degen

Just one of the almost hundred million descendants of the original European Starlings released into Central Park NYC in 1890. All photos in this posting, unless otherwise noted are © John Degen 2024.

Sorry to be tardy with this posting. I’ve been dealing with some heavy family stuff, and have not been able to get to the blog.

My last bit of serious birding took place in early April in The Ramble, a wilder than average section of Central Park in Manhattan. I’ve been following a number of Central Park birders on social media for years now, and so wanted to get there to see Flaco the escaped Eurasian Eagle-Owl. Alas, Flaco succumbed to the toxic levels of rat poison in his wild diet before I could get there.

Yankee Stadium, where a flock of Blue Jays from Toronto beat the NY Yankees at their Home Opener on April 5th.

But The Ramble, and in fact all of New York, did not disappoint. My lovely wife, Julia, and I took in a Yankees/Blue Jays game (the birds won!), and enjoyed our meanderings of the city, including the New York Public Library main branch on 42nd Street, which is one of my favourite buildings in the world. The library returned my love by keeping Julia and me safe during the great Manhattan earthquake of 2024. We were in the reading room when the quake struck, and felt nothing at all. It was only as we left the building did we hear everyone talking about the intensity of the shaking. I mean, what can’t a building full of books do?

A Blue Jay (Cyanocitta cristata) makes a great catch on an acorn in Central Park.

The Ramble, which became world famous during the early pandemic for an ugly confrontation, is a haven for birds in the middle of an impossibly busy city.

I spent a lovely, sunny Sunday morning wandering The Ramble and seeing some spring birds I wouldn’t re-see in Canada for close to a month. And I checked off a bucket-list experience, getting up close and personal with a European Starling (Sturnus vulgaris) in the park that started it all for this now widespread European immigrant.

This starling, named Mortimer, became my friend just north of the Met.

Legend has it that Shakespeare appreciator Eugene Schieffelin released forty pairs of starlings into Central Park in 1890 as part of a project to introduce to the New World all the species mentioned in Shakespeare’s plays. Starlings, one of nature’s great mimics, show up in Henry IV, Act One, when the character Hotspur plots to drive King Henry mad by having one of these birds repeat the name of Hotspur’s brother, whom Henry holds prisoner:

I’ll have a starling shall be taught to speak
Nothing but “Mortimer,” and give it him
To keep his anger still in motion.

Seated on a bench, waiting for Julia to return from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, I was approached by a most colourful and friendly descendant of Schieffelin’s birds.

Enjoy my too-brief time in New York.

It is so rare for me to be able to photograph a Golden-crowned Kinglet (Regulus satrapa) because they flit about so quickly and nervously. But this urban bird was fearless.

A female Northern Cardinal (Cardinalis cardinalis) in the city so nice they named it twice.

One of many, many White-throated Sparrows (Zonotrichia albicollis) near a feeder station in The Ramble.

An Eastern Towhee (Pipilo erythrophthalmus) attracted a LOT of excited birders near Belvedere Castle in The Ramble, including another Canadian. We recognized each other by our accents.


 A bit more New York

One of my favourite buildings in the world.

This is The Book (and Bird) Room after all. New York Public Library reading room.

The Carolina Parrot, sadly extinct, but memorialized in this window at the NYPL.

Spring was audacious in Central Park in early April.

This not-super-accurate Bald Eagle statue sits atop the entrance to Grand Central Market in midtown.

The Falconer, a sculpture by English artist George Blackall Simonds, stands at the bottom of The Ramble.

A surprisingly comfortable bench built into a rustic fence at Belvedere Castle.

Couldn’t resist including this shot of the Golden-crowned Kinglet in action.

Your humble reporter, with his classic frown-smile (can’t explain it), in High Line Park in Chelsea, Manhattan.


“A lover’s eyes will gaze an eagle blind”
— William Shakespeare, Love’s Labours Lost, act 4, scene 3

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Interview with a Birder: Tony Ward — Slow, Steady, North-Shore Birding

March 28, 2024 John Degen

Snowy Owl (Bubo scandiacus). Just one of the many elusive species Tony has seen that I have not. All images in this posting, unless otherwise noted, are © Antony Ward.

Tony Ward, @phelge123 on Instagram


I want to acknowledge the area discussed and covered in this interview, on the North Shore of Lake Huron, is the traditional land of the Métis Nation and the Anishinabewaki. Robinson Huron Treaty territory. I am grateful to the Thessalon First Nation for the privilege of sharing this land.


I had a real good sense of Tony Ward long before I actually met him. He was a familiar and regular figure on my early wanderings around the Northern Ontario town of Thessalon. Part ghost, part Zen master. I’d see him from a distance, riding his bike with no attempt at speed, seemingly aimless in his direction. It was only with time and closer observation I noticed he carried a camera looped around his neck. His eyes more on the trees and underbrush than on the road ahead of him.

Now entering Thessalon… the slow-birding capital of Lake Huron’s north shore.

In 2017, my wife and I bought a small 130-year-old house beside the Thessalon River in preparation for eventual retirement from big city living. We used the place for occasional vacations, and I took the odd solitary retreat time there to renew my love of woodworking and gardening. I built a few bedframes and birdhouses, pruned and planted trees and hedges, and then designed and installed a rough pergola that now graces the back deck, and acts as a hanging-frame for quite a few bird feeding stations.

March 2020 saw my family and I arrive north for what we thought was going to be a short lockdown. With hastily installed high-speed Wi-Fi, we sat and watched the world change on our phones. I remember one of my sons showing me a video of Toronto’s King Street, a block from my downtown office, recorded by drone — utterly, eerily empty and silent in the middle of a workday. It was a surreal and shocking sight. And while Thessalon was no escape from the anxiety of those early pandemic days, it offered fresh air, sunshine, plenty of room for daily walks, and a ready exposure to nature unlike anything we’d experienced before. That first March I watched the river out our front window change a little bit each day, from a frozen highway for snow-machines to a playground for otters and ducks. If we’d lost a lifestyle down south, we may just have gained a better one up north. We were in Thessalon off and on (mostly on) for two years, working and schooling remotely.

In those days, for me, Tony Ward didn’t have a name. Instead, he was Bicycle Guy. My kids would come back into the house after a few hours wandering Thessalon, and give some version of the same daily report.

“We saw Bicycle Guy by the highway… at the end of Lighthouse Point… over by the marsh… stopped beside the beach.”

One of Thessalon’s famous northern channel sunsets.

Tony, in his high-visibility reflective vest, pedaling slowly from place to place, stopping regularly to snap a photo or peer through binoculars, was a reassuring touchstone for all of us. A bit of a mystery (what is he looking at?); definitely an inspiration (that guy covers a LOT of ground). Bicycle Guy taught us the pace and priorities of our new life. Go slow, pay attention to the little things, notice the natural cycles, enjoy the air.

Birders talk about their spark bird, the avian sighting that inspired them to take up a lifelong pursuit of, and appreciation for, birds and nature. Tony was a spark human for our transplanted urban family. He got our eyes off our phones, and prompted us to look instead at all the life that was continuing around us despite a global health emergency.


A handsome Red-headed Woodpecker (Melanerpes erythrocephalus) on the northern edge of its breeding grounds.

So, Tony, thanks for agreeing to chat. First off, can you tell me your connection to Thessalon and Huron’s north shore. You seemed pretty established by the time I got here. Are you a lifer?

My partner’s parents lived up here. We came up from Oshawa (2018) after we sold our house, to help them remain independent, with us basically retiring here. 

Did you bring your birding habit here with you, or did it develop here?

No, like for most people who live in the busy cities (I lived in Scarborough in my early life) they were just birds… and I had no interest in them. It had always been a romantic notion for me though, to be “up north,” living in the woods, surrounded by nature. And I certainly found that here in Thessalon! The birding just happened to be part of my awakening, as I rode around the area and discovered in many ways what I had romanticized about.

A Ross’s Goose (Anser rossii) visiting town in a flock of Canada geese.

After a bit more than a year of real concentration on the birds around here, I’m impressed by the variety (I have 81 species on my Algoma list, and eBird notes 159 for Lighthouse Point in Thessalon alone!). Did you have any idea when you first got to Thessalon just how diverse and accessible the wildlife was? 

Well, I knew I’d be in an area with a lot of wildlife, but my education on the large number of species of birds, and being able to understand everything about them is an on-going challenge I enjoy. It sharpens the senses — sight, hearing, etc. — and gives your brain new information to keep it working. Minus the stress, of course, of the working-world kind of information (ha ha).

Okay sir, tell me about the bike. How many kilometers have you logged on that thing? I’m guessing the advantage of it is relative quiet in approaching wildlife? Disadvantage… the cold?

Well, I began this journey in 2018 so maybe average 10k a day for most likely 325 days a year, and that would give you the answer. Been through my share of bikes doing it (ha!). Big advantage yes, being on a bike. Besides the fresh air and, yes, sometimes very cold and challenging conditions. But if you want to see an owl!? I must admit I’ve cut back on my winter excursions; too slippery and cold, and I want to be able to continue being active and not injured at my age. I’ve joined our town gym for the badder-than-bad weather.

I just did that calculation. We’re talking about approximately 20,000 kilometres. That’s like riding your bike from the North Pole all the way to the South Pole!

Ummmm… I don’t think that’s a bird. A Black bear (Ursus americanus) checks out Tony from afar. Not afar enough if you ask me.

You’ve posted photos of bobcats and bears. I know there are moose and wolves about, and there’s a persistent rumour about a cougar. Have you ever felt nervous when you’re far out and isolated on a back road?

My first couple of years I was nervous about bears — my favourite animal — but after the first few encounters, I realized I had nothing to worry about. It was another learning experience, getting to understand everything about them. You still have to use common sense, of course, be bear-wise, so to speak. It’s certainly an adrenaline rush when you encounter one, or a bobcat, etc., and that’s part of the motivation. You never know what you’re going to see out there. I’ve heard the cougar stories, and have a pretty good idea of where to find them, but you have to be very lucky. I almost rode into a Grey Wolf a couple of years ago, that was exciting, to say the least!

Another close encounter. This time with a local Bobcat (Lynx rufus).

You just posted a photo of a Ross’s Goose, and I understand it was right at the mouth of our river. I’m kicking myself for being south right now. That bird’s not supposed to be in Thessalon… not now or ever really. Have you seen a lot of rarities around the area?

Yes, I’ve had some good fortune with rarities. Sabine’s Gull (Xema sabini), Tropical Kingbird (Tyrannus melancholicus), Boreal Owl (Aegolius funereus) to name a few. Right now, I have a sub-species of a Dark-eyed Junco (Junco hyemalis) in my yard, all the way from the Pacific Northwest! Again…motivation to keep going, something new for the old noggin to digest.

A Boreal Owl (Aegolius funereus) stopping by on the southernmost edge of its eastern range.

Thanks so much, Tony, for this chat, and for all the help you’ve offered me in my own wanderings. I would not know where to look for eagles or our local heron without you. I’ll leave the bears and bobcats to you, though.


“The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit
By the earthed lightning of a flock of swans”
— Seamus Heaney

Bonus photos from Bicycle Guy.

A beautiful female Bobolink (Dolichonyx oryzivorus) in the sweet pea.

A Gray Wolf (Canis lupus) dissolves into the bush.

Spotted Towhee (Pipilo maculatus) pretty far out of its range, and just kind of hanging out in Thessalon.

A majestic Great Grey Owl (Strix nebulosa) with classic bowtie and surprised expression.

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An Extra Blog Post for a Very Extra Bird

February 28, 2024 John Degen

Bullock’s Oriole quite far from home, enjoying some good Canadian hospitality. (All images in this posting, unless otherwise noted, are © John Degen)

My busy life means bird info here is usually only updated monthly, but we have a quick special edition today to mark my first successful twitch. Introducing the Bullock’s Oriole (Icterus bullockii) a beautifully coloured insect-eater that also has a taste for orange halves and grape jelly, like its distant cousin, the Baltimore Oriole (Icterus galbula).

For those not familiar with birding slang, to “twitch” is to respond to a report of a rare bird sighting by jumping from the couch and heading out as soon as possible to catch sight of the creature and get it on one’s life list. In their zealous drive for ever more birds, twitchers are often treated with disdain by “serious birders” and accused of all sorts of anti-social behaviour, such as trespassing and even endangering their targets. I don’t mind the twitchers I’ve encountered in my favourite birding park, though I can understand the temptation to get snobby about them. I can always tell there’s some kind of special bird about just by the number of long lenses being unpacked in the parking lot. For me birding is a long walk enhanced by birds. Twitching just seems like too much work.

The classic upside-down slurp of an oriole at a jelly feeder.

I generally don’t twitch myself, out of a combination of laziness and lack of time. I do follow various bird alert email lists and Facebook groups, so I am aware of when and where rarities appear near me. But I’ve learned from experience that near me has to me really very near to me or the impulse to see a new bird can easily give way to a cup of tea and a good book.

But a couple evenings ago, I saw a report of a Bullock’s Oriole in Toronto’s High Park. I live not far at all from High Park. In fact, my parents were married in a church just a block from that wonderful green space; I used to live right beside it back in my student days; and, I still own my High Park T-Ball Coaching Staff shirt from when my now adult kids played there every Wednesday evening from spring to late summer. A twitch to High Park could be accomplished on the way to work. Easy peasy.

Range map of the Bullock’s Oriole (thanks to Cornell’s All About Birds site) showing this bird doesn’t get much into Canada at all, and certainly not to Ontario in the east.

And so, here she is. The female Bullock’s Oriole, a western native who should not have wandered much farther east than the Wyoming/South Dakota border, but who somehow found her way to a stand of loaded oriole feeders near Lake Ontario’s north shore. It is said the Bullock’s and the Baltimore Oriole often interbreed and hybridize at the edges of their territories, and they were once considered a single species. But this bird does not play baseball, and probably has no appetite for soft-shell crab from the Chesapeake Bay.

Delicious grape jelly is a quick hit of energy for the insect hunt.

As I joined the small huddle on the edge of the park, and worked my way quietly into position for some photos, I chatted with an older fellow who had driven all the way into the city from Cambridge, Ontario, about an hour and half to the west. To be where he was when he was looking at the Bullock’s, he must have left his house well before dawn. Now that’s a twitcher.

Safe travels, little friend.

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The White Owl in the Belfry Sits

February 24, 2024 John Degen

A Long-eared Owl having a snooze very near the end of one of my birding hikes. All images in this posting, unless otherwise noted, are © John Degen.

Early in my birding habit, I was stopped by a fellow wanderer on the north shore of Lake Ontario.

“Have you seen the Snowy Owl? There’s supposed to be a Snowy Owl about.”

This was before I was aware that the eBird app, Facebook groups, and various email lists are regularly tipping off local twitchers to rare bird sightings near them, and generating a lot of interest and local movement when an infrequently seen bird comes by for a visit. How, I wondered, does this person know there’s been a Snowy Owl in this park? And, more importantly, where can I see a Snowy Owl?

This recent page ripped from the Bird a Day calendar I received for Christmas from my mother-in-law shows the very owl I was looking for and still have not seen. Dammit. © Roger Tory Peterson

The answer that day, as it remains today, is I have NOT seen the Snowy Owl… not any Snowy Owl, in fact. Despite living in two places that have fairly regular Snowy Owl sightings during the winter — Snowies are arctic hunters, and don’t dependably come this far south in numbers that make them predictable — I have yet to be so lucky.

The Snowy Owl’s North American territory, as shown on the back of that page ripped from my Bird a Day calendar. © Roger Tory Peterson

In fact, it was starting to feel like I might never see any owls of any colour or size, as my relentless scanning of power poles, fenceposts and tangled limbs came up empty. The very first bird I tried to find in the practice of birding was a Long-eared Owl (Asio otus) reported at a conservation area on the Puget Sound when I was visiting my in-laws in Seattle-Tacoma. We trudged through a downpour that day and saw no owls. A baptism by rain into the fulfilling hopelessness of trying to connect with a creature that really doesn’t want anything to do with you.

Owls did make it onto my life list in 2023, but only by taunting me with their eerie calls in the darkness. I heard a couple of Barred Owls (Strix varia) outside a cabin we rented in northern Michigan, when we travelled for my niece Caroline’s wedding; and soon after a Long-Eared Owl called out to me on a pre-dawn stroll through my local birding park. There’s nothing quite as fruitless as standing still in the darkness hoping to catch the silent flight of one of nature’s greatest camouflage experts.

But then, early in 2024, at the very end of a long hike with my camera, in full daylight and about twenty feet from my car, something swooped from tree to tree without a sound, setting off the owl alarm in my head. Three Long-eared Owls had perched for rest in a tiny clump of cover. I was not the only birder to see those owls that morning, and the excitement was palpable. But all our geeking out was done in hushed tones, slow walks, and from respectful distances. I managed a few snaps with my long lens, and close to a quarter hour of observation from afar, and then left to reduce the number of humans in the immediate vicinity.

I learned that owls like to keep an impossible tangle of limbs between themselves and cameras. Makes sense.

And I learned an important lesson. My posted photos of the owls were greatly appreciated; but my identification of where I’d seen them was not. Some gentle prompting on social media led me to remove location ID from the posts. Owls are so sensitive to human interaction, not even eBird will publicly display the location info of my sightings. The idea is to see them, feel blessed, move on, and then don’t make it easy for anyone else to see them. Not because we don’t want other birders to experience our joy; but to keep the excited crowds to those in the immediate vicinity at that moment.

There is no side-eye like a Long-eared Owl side-eye.

So, enjoy the photos of my owls. And never mind where I saw them exactly. No offence. Just following the rules.

The Long-eared Owl was high enough in its tree to feel comfortable napping, despite being fairly exposed.


“And the owls have all fled far away
In a merrier glen to hoot and play,
For the moon is veiled and sleeping now.”
— Percy Bysshe Shelley

In Memoriam:

Flaco, the King of Central Park

Thank you to NYC photographer David Lei (@davidlei on Instagram) for this classic photo of the majestic Flaco.

Last night, birders around the world had our hearts broken by the terrible news that Flaco, a Eurasian Eagle-Owl (Bubo bubo) who escaped from New York City’s Central Park Zoo just over a year previously had been found dead on an Upper West Side sidewalk.

The story of Flaco’s unexpected survival in the wild after more than a dozen years in captivity played out in New York media and over social media as scores of thrilled Manhattan birders posted their daily Flaco sightings and photos. Released by vandals who cut through his Central Park cage in February 2023, Flaco was not expected to have the skills to feed himself or keep away from the myriad dangers to wildlife in one of the world’s most congested urban centers.

And yet, photos of Flaco with ubiquitous New York rats in his talons, proved his instincts for hunting were intact; and his wily avoidance of all traps set by zoo officials trying to recapture him spoke to an unstoppable drive for freedom. I checked on Flaco every single day, and my favourite photos were those of him, Batman-like, atop ledges, water towers and fire escapes, surveying the city that had become his kingdom. I have a work trip to Manhattan coming up in April, and I had already built time into my schedule to wander the Upper West Side on a Flaco search.

At this writing, it is still unclear how Flaco died. We know he collided with a building (sadly, a common way for urban birds to perish), but tests are being performed on his remains to find out if poisons in his diet (there are a lot of poisoned rats wandering Manhattan) might have made him more vulnerable to accident.

I’m hoping Flaco’s legacy will be an improved understanding of how wildlife and human settlement can coexist. Eurasian Eagle-Owls, while not a North American species are not particularly threatened (they are listed as LC, or Least Concern, on eBird). Perhaps the careful and benevolent encouragement of owl populations in urban parks is a better way to control vermin than poison.

Rest free, Flaco.

Read more about Flaco, and see more beautiful shots by David Lei here.

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