Christmas Bird Counting

My favorite part about the holidays has nothing to do with the holidays themselves. Sure, I enjoy pulling out my Christmas music to decorate the tree, watching people's faces light up when they receive my gifts, and spending time with family and friends that I rarely get to see, but the part that I look forward to the most is the time I spend with fellow birders on the holiday tradition known as the Christmas Bird Count.

It may sound like an odd holiday tradition, but the CBC as its called for short is one of the earliest movements toward bird conservation in this country, and has created the longest-running database of bird distribution in North America. The CBC was started in 1900 as an alternative to a long-standing tradition of hunting birds on Christmas Day, where the goal was to shoot as many birds as possible to win. An early conservationist realized that bird populations could not sustain such a tradition, and created the count tradition to draw people away from hunting the birds. Over the years the count has slowly spread across the country, with volunteers coming together to start their own count in communities nationwide. The National Audubon Society organizes the count each year, though the majority of the work is done by local count compliers who organize the volunteers in their own circle. The CBC is a volunteer-run effort to count birds within a predetermined area year after year between December 14th and January 5th to determine the presence and distribution of birds in circles across the continent. t. Count circles are 15 miles wide and are usually centered around a city in a way that includes both residential areas and birding hotspots, as both are equally important to determining how bird populations are adapting to changes in the landscape due to human activity.Thousands of birders commit to spending an entire day during the busy holiday season to help with the effort, and many birders partake in more than one count. Most volunteers commit to birding from dawn until dusk, with some eager birders even starting before dawn in the hopes of catching owls before first light. Volunteers are drawn to the count for a reason to get outside, the hopes of seeing an unusual species, and the fun of gathering with fellow birders at the end of the day. The number of volunteers in each circle varies greatly, but even in lesser populated areas at least a dozen birders can be expected to join the effort. When twelve birders spend 8 hours each looking for birds, it's amazing what kinds of species they often find. At the evening gatherings of volunteers that follow everyone is always eager to find out who had the biggest surprise, or the rarest bird, on that day.

Getting up at sunrise has its perks, this was the sunrise over Lake Champlain on the day of the Plattsburgh CBC

I've been participating in CBC's since I learned what one was, just after I graduated college in 1998. I remember how excited I was to get out and look for birds and contribute my findings to the long-running database. My first count was the Rennssalear CBC just outside of Albany, NY. I had recently joined the Hudson-Mohawk Bird Club, which was full of expert birders who were eager to share their birding skills with youngins like me. Many of the club members volunteered for the count, and were undoubtedly more skilled than I was at bird identifictation. I had only been birding for a little over a year, having taken ornithology in my junior year of college. But expert birding skills aren't needed to help with a CBC, since the majority of birds that one counts in the northeast are common feeder birds such as chickadees and house sparrows. Our best bird of the day was a Cooper's Hawk that we saw perched on a log with its lunch, a chickadee, in its talons. Not bad for a pair of beginner birders on their first CBC.

A Red-tailed Hawk on the Plattsburgh count

Since then I've participated in counts in a number of places in NY, but the ones I've participated in the most are the ones in Plattsburgh and Saranac Lake. These two counts are undoubtedly some of the coldest and snowiest counts in the U.S., and are not for less hardy souls. While much of the count can be accomplished from the warmth of a heated car, there is always walking to be done as well. This year's Plattsburgh CBC was the coldest one I've done yet, on December 18th, with a morning temperature of only 2 degrees. The temperature reached into the teens by mid-day, but the wind made sure we stayed nice and cold regardless. Cold snaps like that aren't the best for seeing birds, as many species would be less active on cold days, and some lingering migrants may finally push out as the cold front comes in. But it wasn't a bad day for me and my birding partner, as we managed to find 34 species that day, the most I've ever had on the Plattsburgh count. The species we found included 2 lingering loons, 5 bluebirds, a hardy Great-Blue Heron, and a flyover Plieated Woodpecker. The best bird of the day (and possibly of the whole count circle) was undoubtedly the Yellow-Rumped Warbler that we found in someone's front yard. Warblers are insectivores, and as such usually migrate south in late September and early October to places where the insects aren't frozen to death. In the 39 years of Plattsburgh counts this species has only been recorded one other time. The fact that it remains here now is likely due to the mild winter that we have had thus far, where I was seeing insects on my hikes as late as mid-November. But with the recent cold weather, I hope this little warbler has the sense to leave soon, as there won't be any insects around here for another few months.

Birders cover everywhere they can in the circle, including this airport
 in Charleston, SC, which was a good spot for grassland birds

When one gets up before dawn and spends an entire day birding one expects that they will be rewarded with good species of birds every time. In twelve years of CBC's I can assure you that for every exciting count I've done I've had another not-so-exciting count. One year I spent the day snowshoeing 7 miles in a snowstorm for the Saranac Lake CBC, only to have a total of 8 species for the entire day, the fewest I've ever had. Due to it being one of the coldest places in the continental U.S. the Saranac Lake CBC has less diversity that most counts, and most years I count between 15-20 species in my territory. On the Plattsburgh count I usually have a twenty-something species. The most exciting count I ever did was last year, when my work had me in South Carolina during CBC season. Having only ever done CBC's in upstate NY, counting birds in an area where all the birds migrate to for the winter was a completely different experience--there were birds everywhere and I could feel my fingers the whole time! At the end of the day we had 76 species, and for me every one of them was exciting. We birded in a variety of places including a residential development, an airport, and a saltmarsh along the river. There were so many birds it was a challenge to count all of them, and I'm sure that a few were missed. In NY that never happens, as birds are usually seen in small numbers and the only challenge is determining how big the flock of chickadees is every time you hear one calling. As much as I love helping with the counts in my own community, I hope I can get away to do another warm-weather count in the future.


While most people will be ringing in the new year recovering from the prior night's festivities, I'll be ringing it in with, you guessed it, counting birds. The Saranac Lake CBC is on New Year's Day this year, and I'll be out there at sunrise looking for birds. This year should be a good count, and I have a feeling that I'll break my Saranac Lake CBC record this year (which is only 17 species) with the amount of ducks that are still hanging around and the number of finch species that have invaded the north country this year. I'm excited that the forecast is calling for temperatures in the 30's, which is warmer than most counts I can remember. And the best part, what I look forward to most, is being able to see all my birder friends afterward, in a gathering of merriment where we share birding stories from the past year as well as the day's adventures. In a world where birders are a rarity themselves, I always enjoy being surrounded by people with the same passion as me, who will laugh at my bird stories because they understand. It's a fitting end to the holiday season, and I'll anxiously look forward to next year.

Hurricane Mountain

The firetower on Hurricane Mtn.

In an effort to keep my hikes close to home I've done a number of small hikes in the past week, almost all of which have been in or adjacent to the Hurricane Mountain Primitive Forest. For those of you unfamiliar with the terminology of forest units within the Adirondack Forest Preserve, the term "primitive forest" is used to describe an area that has most of the qualifications of wilderness, but  cannot classified as wilderness due to the presence of man-made structures within the unit. The presence of a fire tower, built in the early 1900's, is the key reason for the area's designation as "primitive" rather than "wild". Firetowers are a controversial subject in the Adirondacks, causing an endless debate over whether they should be preserved for historical reasons, restored for recreational use, or removed to return the area to a "forever wild" state. I, myself, don't really have an opinion on this matter, as I see valid points from each side of the argument. Part of me supports the idea of keeping the Adirondacks as wild as possible, but another part of me recognizes that the fire towers are a key part of Adirondack history. A few years ago I helped with the restoration of the fire tower on Lyon Mtn., one of the few towers that are still maintained for public use. So I really can't pick a side on this issue, and tend to think there are far more important issues in the Adirondacks that we should worry about.

A dusting of snow on the old logging road

On some mountains a fire tower is necessary in order to obtain a 360 degree view of the surrounding peaks, but on Hurricane Mt. no tower is needed for an amazing view. Many summits in the Hurricane Mtn. forest are bare rock at the top, a result of forest fires that ravaged the area in 1908, burning  20% of the forest preserve. The advantage to this is that many of these mountains, despite being only 2500-3500 feet high, offer astounding views of the greater mountain ranges around it. From the summit of Hurricane one can see the Jay Mtn. range, Giant Mtn. Wilderness, the Great Range, Whiteface Mtn., and the Green Mountains. Unfortunately the day that I chose to climb the peak last week afforded little in the way of a view, as a cold front of clouds and snow came rolling through as we made the ascent. The view was still impressive though, creating an ethereal view of Giant Mtn. as an island in a sea of clouds that would come and go as the clouds rolled past. While being able to see hundreds of peaks is always rewarding, there is something equally exhilarating about being in the clouds, surrounded in mist, watching a front roll in. Hurricane Mtn. tends to live up to its name by being extremely windy due to its isolation from other peaks, as I've experienced the other two times I've visited. But on this day the wind was calm, just an occasional light breeze pushing the clouds through, adding to the surreal feeling of being in the clouds. While we sat at the top a light snow began to fall, leaving a slight dusting on the trees that we admired on our way down the mountain. While I've always preferred any other season over winter, days like that are giving me a new appreciation for the season.

Ethereal view of Giant from Hurricane Mtn.

There are three ways to ascend Hurricane--Crow Clearing, Route 9N, and Hurricane Mtn. Road. We chose the Hurricane Mtn. Road route, the least popular of the three. This trail starts on private land and traverses an old logging road for about a mile before it starts to climb. The trail was a little slick in spots due to ice, but overall very manageable. There was a large amount of fallen trees along the trail, some of which looked fresh from hurricane Irene, and some of which is probably from the ice storm of 1998. Whatever the cause, they had all since been cleared from the trail itself leaving no obstacles to climb over. Another friend of mine hiked the Route 9N trail the next day, the most popular route, and reported that it was very wet. Last year I hiked in from Crow Clearing, and I think this is the most scenic route. The trail crosses back and forth across a stream for much of the way before ascending through a thick balsam forest up to the summit. From this same parking area there are three other shorter hikes that can be added to a trip up Hurricane, or done on their own. Last year I hiked to Lost Pond after ascending Hurricane, a small picturesque pond perched on the side of the mountain. Yesterday I returned to that area to hike to Big Crow, a short but steep hike to an exposed rocky summit that overlooks Keene and the Great Range. It was another overcast day, but breaks of sun shone light on the valley below and made the ice-coated trees on the summit shimmer, creating some great opportunities for photos. From there one can continue to hike to Little Crow, about 400 feet below, but I chose not to do so yesterday because much of the bare rock descending Big Crow was covered in ice, making footing challenging.

View from Big Crow Mtn.

Hurricane Mtn. from Owl Head Lookout

One advantage to keeping the firetower on Hurricane is that it makes the peak easily recognizable from the top of other peaks. Last week I easily identified Hurricane from the summits of Baxter Mtn. and Owl Head lookout, two peaks that lie in the Giant Mtn. wilderness just beside Hurricane. Even though the firetower no longer serves a purpose, as its use was discontinued in the 1970's, it plays a part in the character of Hurricane Mountain, and I'm not sure the mountain would be the same without it.

Backyard Birds

Okay, I have to admit that I haven't been hiking at all this past week, leaving me at a loss for adventures to blog about. But that's okay, because I've been waiting for the right time to write about the wildlife oasis that is my backyard, because there have been many memorable moments right outside my dining room window. My backyard has numerous attractions to wildlife--a flowing stream, open fields, shrubs for cover, an adjacent wilderness area, fruit trees, perennial flowers, and plenty of bird feeders. Most days I can see more birds here than I would see if I hiked ten miles through the forest, so you can't blame me for choosing to relax at home once in a while and watch the birds from the comfort of my warm home. I can reliably expect a good number of species here, and once in a while I'm met with some surprises.

A Black-capped Chickadee that I banded

I suppose I should start with the species that have become regular visitors to the yard, some of which I've grown rather fond of since moving here last year. Each morning starts with the chickadees, who arrive just after sunrise each morning in a small flock, taking turns at the feeder (they do, in fact, have a pecking order when it comes to feeding). Chickadees come and go in small flocks throughout the day, making it impossible to know how many there are. The only way to really count them is to capture them and band them, a project I started last week. Using a fine mesh net called a mist net I captured three of my resident chickadees last week and gave them each a shiny bracelet with a USFWS number so they can be tracked if caught again. I've seen at least two of them revisit the feeder, and suspect that there may be dozens more for me to band. That'll be a good project for me this winter.

The next birds to visit are usually the Blue Jays, which loudly announce their presence, and usually only stay at the feeder for a short while each morning and again in the afternoon. Occasionally we will see a woodpecker at the suet, usually a Hairy Woodpecker. I've seen Pileated Woodpeckers in the yard, always a magnificent sight, but they're a little big for my small suet feeder. Lately the only other regular species has been a small flock of American Goldfinches, who like to sit on the feeder's perches and gorge themselves on sunflower seeds.

The Gray Catbird, feasting on crabapples

The regulars are a welcome sight at the feeders, but what really makes this yard exciting is the surprising rarites that pass through. Last week I was sitting at my computer when I heard a familiar meow-like call from outside, which was coming from an appropriately-named Gray Catbird that was sitting in my crabapple tree. Gray Catbirds are rather common birds of shrubby areas in more southern parts of the state, but in the Adirondacks they are an uncommon sight. Seeing one at the end of November is a very rare sight, and it's likely that this was a young bird that flew a little off course from it's migration route south. The confused bird stayed in the yard for five days, then disappeared when a cold snap came through. Hopefully it put on enough weight eating my crabapples to make the rest of its journey.

A Ruffed Grouse surprised me this evening

A few days before the catbird arrived I had a visit from a Ruffed Grouse, who was likely also attracted to the berries on my crabapple tree. In my experience crabapple trees are by far the best way to attract birds to the yard, as I have had a number of rare birds in that tree. Last winter the tree was picked clean by flocks of Cedar Waxwings and Bohemian Waxwings, who depend on trees that bear fruit in winter as their main food source. One day last year the alarm calls of Blue Jays alerted me to a Northern Shrike that was perched in the crabapple tree, a predatory bird that is seen in small numbers here in winter, and rarely seen in backyards. It was likely looking to pick off one of the chickadees or goldfinches from the feeders, but the Blue Jays drove it off as soon as it arrived. This was definitely the most exciting bird I've seen in the yard, and wish I had time to snap a photo before it left.

A Bohemian Waxwing in the crabapple tree last winter

The Black Squirrel

While the birds come and go, there are a variety of mammals that have become regular visitors here as well. A herd of deer is often seen in the fields behind the house, and they cross through the yard to reach the stream down below. A few weeks ago they were in the yard a few nights eating some of the fallen fruit from an apple tree that I have on the edge of the woods. We have excellent rodent diversity here, with at least four species living in or near the yard. There are chipmunks, mice (who are unfortunately sighted inside the house too), red squirrels, and gray squirrels. The star attraction of the yard is a female "black" squirrel that visits almost daily, which is an uncommon color morph of a gray squirrel. She usually visits the feeders just before or after a male gray squirrel visits, so I assume that they are a mated pair. They disappeared for most of the summer, off raising young I assume, but returned about a month ago and have been seen under the birdfeeders daily ever since.


As I write I can hear the chip notes of chickadees outside, an almost constant sound this time of year. The crabapple tree is still full of bright red berries, awaiting its next visitor. There haven't been any sightings of waxwings yet this winter, so I'm not sure if they'll come down from the north this year. I'm hoping to see a Pine or Evening Grosbeak in the tree this year, since they are predicted to come south this winter. Stay posted for the next rare sighting...

Snow Goose Migration

While I love my home in the Adirondacks, there is one thing that I definitely miss about living in the Champlain Valley--the migration of Snow Geese. Each spring and fall thousands of Snow Geese stop in the corn fields adjacent to Lake Champlain to refuel for the rest of their journey. In the spring their final destination is the arctic tundra, a flight worth making to reproduce because there are few predators in far northern climates. In the fall their final destination is the southern United States and Mexico, where they winter in farm fields and grasslands. When I lived in the Champlain Valley the Snow Geese were the true sign that the seasons are about to change, migrating in the first days of spring and the last days of fall, timing their arrival to just avoid the snowfall. These birds take their time reaching their destination--unlike small songbirds that can fly hundreds if not thousands of miles in a few days these larger birds fly much shorter distances before needing to refuel. They stop in numerous fields on their way south, hoping to find fields such as the one I saw them in yesterday,which was a recently plowed cornfield full of broken corn cobs. They'll stay as long as they can to pack on weight for the next leg of their journey, and push on when the weather changes.

There are about 3000 geese in this shot.

What makes Snow Geese such an amazing sight to see is the sheer numbers in which they migrate in, covering the fields so well that from a distance they look like a blanket of snow themselves. Adult birds have strikingly beautiful white plumage, with black outer primary feathers that make them easy to distinguish from other waterfowl in the air. Young birds are less white, with dusky gray feathers throughout. Mixed in with these beautiful white birds are the less common "Blue Goose", which look like another species all together but are simply a bluish-gray color morph of  the same species. Adult blue morphs have a pure white head and neck, contrasting beautifully with the darker body, while the juveniles are entirely dark gray. In the flocks that I saw yesterday there was maybe one blue goose for every hundred white geese.

When the geese arrive in the Champlain Valley they move between the fields each day, staying mainly in the fields between Rouses Point and Chazy. When I lived on Conroy Farm in West Chazy, I anxiously awaited the day each year that the geese would land in the cornfield behind my house, so I could watch them from my upstairs window. One year I spotted a rare Greater White-Fronted Goose from my window, a real treat. So it was fairly ironic that when I went looking for the Snow Geese yesterday I happened to find them right on the Conroy Farm, and in much greater numbers than I was expecting this late in the season. Right across from Conroy Organics was a flock of about 5000 Snow Geese, and there were another 1000-2000 birds in adjacent fields as well. I watched them for over an hour, admiring their beauty, snapping photos, and looking for banded birds. An organization in Nunavut, way up in the Arctic Circle, has been banding the snow geese on their breeding grounds for years, and I have tried to do my part to report the bands I see when they pass through. The bands are placed on the neck so that they can be read easily from a distance, if you have good eyes for that sort of thing. Straining my eyes to read the bands yesterday brought back memories of a job I had this spring reading color bands on Red Knots, a small shorebird whose bands are about a tenth the size of the ones used on geese and much more challenging to read (picture below). I think that job actually did help my resighting skills, because I was able to read 4 distant band combinations yesterday just using my inexpensive spotting scope. On the Red Knot project we used top-of-the-line scopes that cost a few thousand dollars, but reading such small numbers was still very difficult. Today I reported the band numbers from the geese to the USGS bird banding lab and researchers at Laval University, who oversee the project. Immediately I found out that all 4 birds were females, and that two of them were just banded this year. The oldest bird that I reported was banded in 2007, and had been resighted three times since being banded, including one sighting in NY in the spring of 2009. My sighting was the first record of this bird for the past year, which makes my sighting crucial to the researcher's goals of determining survivorship.

A Red Knot with color bands--the three digit code is on the green band.

While watching the flocks of geese yesterday I was a little disheartened to hear the sound of gunshots just a few fields away, which scared about 1000 geese into the air to land in the field I was watching. While I appreciated being able to see and photograph the geese in flight, it saddened me to think about these beautiful birds being shot. I'm not opposed to all hunting, but don't understand why a hunter would choose to  hunt a snow goose when there is a greater need to control the population explosion of Canada Geese, which were also in fields nearby. Sadly it is a common sight to see a bird whose plumage is washed in blood due to a gunshot wound, and yesterday I did see one bird with a gunshot wound on its neck. I always appreciated that the Conroy Farm had "No hunting" signs posted to protect the geese, one of few fields where they aren't in danger from hunters.

Snow Geese up close, including white adults and grayer juveniles. Can you find the Blue goose in this photo?

When I lived on the farm the sounds of Snow Geese flying overhead would last a few weeks in the fall, and then the quiet of winter would set in. I miss the sound of those flocks now that I'm nestled in between mountains. But I'm glad I had the chance to see them at least once along their journey, and look forward to seeking them again in the spring.

Stony Pond-A Special Place

A Beaver Pond along the trail

On my way down the northway to visit family this week I took a side trip to visit my favorite trail in the Adirondacks. While there are many Stony Ponds, the one that I'm most fond of is located off of 28N between Newcomb and Minerva. To me it is the perfect trail, only 2 miles in length, easy up and down grades, with a well kept lean-to for camping out. The trail and the pond are very scenic, there are a series of beaver meadows and cascading streams to stop at along the way, and the pond itself has a pretty outlet with beaver dams that can be crossed for exploration if one is sure footed. This may not sound like an incredibly unique trail for the Adirondacks, as there are certainly numerous ponds and beaver meadows throughout the park, but this little pond has a special place in my heart, because I think that it's where my love for the Adirondacks was born.

The first time I set eyes upon Stony Pond I was 16, and it was my first summer with a driver's license and car. My friend Liz and I were on a camping trip with her parents at nearby Harris Lake, and decided to take off for the day and do some exploring on our own. This was by far not my first hike in the Adirondacks, as I was fortunate enough to have adventurous parents who took us on at least two camping trips a year since we were little kids, and dragged on us numerous hikes to waterfalls and mountaintops. I'm quite certain that I was dragged kicking and screaming on some of those hikes, especially when I became a teenage girl and didn't want anyone telling me what to do. I would fight back by complaining as much as possible on our hikes, and bless my parents for putting up with it.The culmination of this was when my parents dragged me up Snowy Mtn., the tallest mountain we ever hiked, and when I got to the top I remember making a remark the along the lines of "we climbed all this way just to look at a bunch of green hills?" at the top. I look back now and wonder, who was that person? Because deep down I knew that I loved nature and everything in it, but I guess as a teenager I rebelled against everything my parents wanted me to do, and hiking was one of them.

Stony Pond from the outlet.

Having a car changed everything because it granted me freedom to do what I want when I wanted. And it didn't take me long to realize that one of the things I still wanted to do was hiking. So we picked the Sotny Pond trail off the map of nearby hikes as the first place to explore on our own. I remember being struck with awe the first time I walked past a beaver dam about halfway up the trail to Stony Pond, where the beavers had built a dam so high that the only way to cross was to walk below it, granting you an eye-level view of this gorgeous pond that the beavers had created. Seeing a pond from below was something I had never experienced, and I still don't think I've seen a dam quite like it. A similar sense of awe arose when we finally reached the pond, when I was overcome with the sense of being in true wilderness. Back then two miles from a road felt like wilderness compared to the hustle and bustle of living in suburbia, and I relished the feeling of being away from all that. I remember finding the logbook in the lean-to and reading the notes left by other people, and someday hope to find that logbook and see what I wrote that day.

It's hard to explain what I felt that day, or why Stony Pond became such an important place. Perhaps it was the combination of freedom and inner peace that the pond represented. I returned there the following summer with more friends, and I have fond memories of catching frogs, toasting marshmallows, and carving our names in the lean-to (which have sense faded). The summer before I left for college I spent every day off in the mountains, canoeing, hiking, and camping whenever possible. When I left for college I posted pictures of the Adirondacks on my dorm room wall, and longed to get back to them. Little did I know that years later I would leave everything behind and finally move to those mountains.

So my trip to Stony Pond yesterday was a pilgrimage of sort, as I try to get there once a year to reground myself at the place that may have influenced my life more than any other. Each time I walk the trail it's different, as seasons change and the beavers are always at work. The water levels at the dam have dropped, so the trail past the beaver dam now walks above the dam rather than below it. The area around the lean-to now has boats to explore the pond, and supplies for campers. Monday night was the coldest night we've had this fall, leaving a thin layer of ice on the pond and coating some of the plants with crystals of frost. The beaver meadows looked more beautiful than ever with the frost-covered grasses and the

patterns that they made in the ice. The same walk today would be completely different, as 8 inches of snow fell in Newcomb the next day and the entire pond is now a blanket of snow. I've been to this pond in all four seasons, and even have a framed photo of the pond from each one that I put together years ago. My favorite season is summer, when a pair of loons calls from the pond and the woods are lush with ferns and wildflowers. But no matter what time of year I visit, that same feeling of freedom and inner peace still overtakes me when I sit by the shore of Stony Pond. Maybe it's the memories the pond invokes more than the pond itself that strikes me, but I still recommend it as one of the best day hikes in the Adirondacks.

Ampersand Mtn Part 2: Lakes and Loons

The view from Ampersand Mtn is one of the best in the Adirondacks because it looks over dozens of lakes, including the Saranac Chain of Lakes, Tupper Lake, and the Ampersand Lake that the mountain is named for. When I first climbed Ampersand last fall what made the experience even more memorable for me was being able to look over the lakes that I spent the summer paddling as a biologist for the Adirondack Loon Program. Looking down at the Saranac Lakes I could trace the path of my kayak over the lakes in my head, connecting the different paddles I had done to what I could see below. Paddling to the edge of a bog is a completely different experience from being able to see the entire bog from up above, as you can see how much larger it is from how it appears from the edge of the water. From above you can see streams and ponds that you wouldn't know existed from below, and the adventurer in me wants to find a way to get to these isolated areas of wilderness.

The Saranac Chain of lakes from Ampersand Mtn.

A not-so-inconspicuous loon nest

 The other thing that my mind sees in the lakes below is where I've found that the Common Loons make their territories in the summer months. By mid-November the loons that breed here have already left for larger waters, heading to the coast of New England and the mid-Atlantic states to spend the winter on the open ocean. Some of them will make a brief stop at Lake Champlain before making their final flight to the coast, and many are there right now. Most people associate loons with the wilderness of the north, but in fact they spend the majority of their lives on the open ocean, and only come on land to nest. Loons are bigger than most people realize, and are extremely awkward on land. For this reason their nests are often easy to find, rarely more than a foot or two from the water's edge, though some do in fact hide them well amongst vegetation. How they nest is just one example of how individual loons vary in behavior, in fact each loon that I've surveyed over the past two summers has had a different personality. On the Saranac Lakes this fall I had a pair that nested in Hungry Bay, tucked into a little passageway that leads back to another small pond (but due to beaver dams it isn't navigable by boat). This pair was fairly tolerant of my presence so long as I didn't get too close to the nest. When I did get close to the nest to check on whether their eggs had hatched the male would swim right up to

A female loon comes off her nest to stretch her wings and preen

my boat and raise himself off the water to threaten me with his size. Some loons would also be very vocal, yodelling loudly when their nest is approached, but this loon chose to be stealthy, and would surprise me every time by coming up from a dive right next to my boat, trying to stare me down. Whenever I approach a nest I do so as quickly as possible to minimize the stress on the loons, so that they do not waste precious energy trying to fend me off. If there is a female incubating on the nest I'll keep my distance and wait patiently for her to take a break to feed to approach the nest, which doesn't always work and sometimes I have to come back another day. The unfortunate truth, however, is that not all people take caution when they are near a loon nest. The Hungry Bay pair laid two eggs in early mid-June, so the eggs should have hatched in the second week of July. However, when I visited the nest shortly after the 4th of July weekend I found 2 eggs with no parent loons in sight. It seemed that over the holiday weekend the loons had abandoned their nest. Since Middle Saranac is a very popular lake for boaters and is swamped by boat traffic on busy weekends it is highly likely that the nest was abandoned due to human disturbance.
With dozens of islands and a number of boggy coves one would expect that Middle Saranac would have a number of nesting pairs of loons, but this past summer that was not the case. The Hungry Bay pair was the only nesting pair I found, though I did find some banded loons in two other areas of the lake that did not seem to be mated. The lake was a pretty popular hangout for loons toward the end of the season, and on one visit I saw a group of 7 loons on Middle Saranac, which was quite the sight. Loons are extremely territorial during nesting season, with unmated loons constantly challenging mated pairs in duels that can sometimes lead to death. An example of this occurred on Silver Lake last year, when a newly arrived pair of loons killed the chick of the pair that had nested on the lake's only island for a number of years. Having seized the territory, the new pair nested on the island this year, successfully raising one chick. The old pair remained at the other end of the lake for the season, unable to find a place to nest. But when nesting season ends all is forgiven and loons aggregate in fairly large groups, where they can cooperatively feed. Sometimes small groups of loons will swim together in a small circle, generating a whirlpool to trap fish beneath them to feed on. This can be quite the sight, and is a great reason to look for loons in late summer and fall after the chicks have already grown.

Feeding time for a pair of loons and their 6 week old chick

Working as a loon observer in the summer is truly one of the most rewarding jobs I could ever ask for, and I'm always sad when the season ends. Sometimes when I'm paddling out at dawn and the sun is rising through the mist over the lake I can't believe I'm actually getting paid to see such a sight. I have this same thought when I'm watching a pair of loons feeding small fish to their adorable chicks, or watching a newborn chick resting on the mother's back. It is an amazing experience and I can't wait for next summer to arrive so that I can do it all over again.

Sunrise over Middle Saranac from the South Creek outlet 

Ampersand Mtn Part 1:Pine Siskins

Yesterday I climbed Ampersand Mountain for some exercise and the amazing view. It's a challenging trail with some tricky footing in spots, but overall short in length and well worth the effort. The view of the high peaks to the east and the Saranac Lakes chain to the west is what makes this mountain so popular with locals and tourists alike. On this cool fall day the mountain was far more popular with birds than people, as I only passed one other person but saw hundreds of birds.

Hundreds of birds in the woods in November? It doesn't seem likely but with the numbers of Pine Siskins that have invaded the Adirondacks from their usual home in the northern boreal forest this fall, flocks in the hundreds have become rather common on my recent hikes. Usually these flocks are just passing overhead, and I hear them call as they fly through the trees. As I mentioned in an earlier post, they sound a lot like goldfinches, which people are more familiar with as regular visitors to backyard birdfeeders.  The only difference is a slightly buzzier zeeEET call that they also make when they are perched high in the trees (you can listen to the call here: http://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/Pine_Siskin/sounds ). As I descended Ampersand yesterday I heard the calls of numerous siskins in a col just below the summit. I had brought my telephoto lens for my camera in the hopes of encountering a Boreal Chickadee, but had been disappointed by them so I decided that the siskins might be a good subject on which to practice my photography skills. A dozen birds or so had landed in a tree nearby, but I decided that pishing might draw them in closer. After just a couple of pishes the chirps and zeets suddenly became louder and far more numerous, filling the otherwise quiet woods with sound. What I thought was only a dozen siskins turned out to be at least 200 birds! I've never been swarmed by so many birds in the forest before, it was truly an amazing sight! Some of them landed within 10 feet of my lens in a small shrub, while the majority of them stayed in the bare branches of taller trees right above me. I snapped about 100 pictures with a dozen different settings in an attempt to get a nice shot despite the bright backlight of overcast skies, which turned out to be rather impossible. I did, however, manage to capture the moment with photos that include dozens of siskins in one shot, and a few close-ups that show the markings of a siskin for those who are unfamiliar with them. At birdfeeders siskins are most easily confused with female House Finches or Purple Finches, as those species are also small birds streaked with brownish gray. The main difference between them is their bills--a siskin has a thin bill, longer than it is wide, while finches have a short stout bill where the length and thickness are fairly equal. Siskins also have finer streaking than similar finches and have a darker head with a yellowish tinge in good light. If you see one take off you might catch a flash of yellow from a yellow patch of feathers on their wing that is usually concealed when they are perched.

House and Purple Finches can be seen in the Adirondacks year round, but Pine Siskins are rarely seen outside of winter. Large numbers of siskins invade the north country every 2-3 years on average, and this year is shaping up to be one of the biggest years in a while. The abundance of food sources this year from an excellent cone, nut, and berry crop has the siskins staying in the woods so far this winter, but when food supplies dwindle with colder weather they will likely begin to visit feeders in search of thistle seed. I've got my thistle feeder full and waiting for the siskins to arrive, but haven't seen them come off the mountains yet. So keep an ear out for siskins if you're hiking in the Adirondacks this winter, and keep your eyes peeled at your backyard feeders, as they're bound to visit sometime soon. 

A Weekend of Owl's Heads

The title of this blog entry may sound like it will be more about birds than trails, but on the contrary there are no owls involved in this posting. Instead the term Owl's Head refers to a mountain in Keene and a rocky outcropping near Elizabethtown. It was not my intention to climb two trails with the same name this weekend, it just happened. If I had planned my hikes in advance I could have made it an Owl's Head trio by climbing yet another Owl's Head-named mountain in Long Lake over the weekend. Which begs the question--why is "Owl's Head" such a popular place name in the Adirondacks? What is it about these peaks that looked like an owl's head? Did these peaks once have tall trees on either side resembling the tufts of a Great-Horned Owl? Did the trees used to cover the summits in a rounded shape resembling the head of a Barred Owl? If this once was the case neither peak has these resemblances now. As very popular trails due to their ease of climb for an almost 360 degree view both peaks are mostly stripped of vegetation, and the trees that do grow up there are twisted and gnarled from being so exposed to the elements. Approaching Owl's Head Mtn. as you descend from the Cascade lakes the shape of an Owl's Head is the last thing that comes to mind, and instead the controversial name of "Nippletop" seems far more appropriate. Owl Head lookout is no more than a rocky outcropping jutting from the side of a small, unnamed peak, and could be more aptly named "Falcon Head" as the cliffs look like excellent habitat for Peregrine Falcons.

Sunset over Cascade Mtn.

Names aside both trails are very rewarding for very little effort. I climbed Owl's Head Mtn. at dusk on Saturday hoping to catch the sunset over the mountains. The short climb can be done in about 20 minutes, and is easily descended in the dark. I reached the summit just as the sun was peeking out of the clouds over Pitchoff Mtn., and as it lowered it cast shadows of red on the hillsides below and lined the clouds over cascade in shades of pink. I scrambled all around the summit to snap views in all directions as the light changed and made new patterns, while trying to keep my balance against the whipping wind. It was a warm day for this season, but with the wind I was bundled up like it was mid-winter to stay warm. When the sun dipped below the mountains and the colors faded I headed down, and was surprised to pass another person still climbing in the almost darkness. I hope he wasn't hoping to catch the sunset--cause he missed it!

 Shades of red cast on the mountainsides

Sunset over Pitchoff Mtn.

Small waterfall on the way to Owl Head lookout

My hike up Owl Head Lookout was a last minute decision made by looking at my map and picking a trail I hadn't been to before (something that's becoming harder to do these days). It was already early afternoon so I needed a shorter hike, and a 2.7 mile climb sounded just right. I don't know why I hadn't noticed this trail in my guide books before, as it's really a lovely walk at an easy grade past scenic streams and cliffs to a view of almost continuous wilderness. The last .2 miles are rather steep, and not something I'd want to scramble up in the winter, but it's quickly over and you find yourself with a striking view of the Giant and Hurricane Mtn. wilderness areas. The outcropping faces southwest, the direction of our most prevailing winds, and the twisted trunks of birches and balsams at the top from these winds make the perfect foreground for picture taking. I'm anxious to climb this trail again next fall, as it looks like a fantastic place to photograph fall foliage. The winds were still whipping yesterday, and I almost toppled over once while taking photos. With the chilling wind I only spent a short time on the summit and took my time on the path down, stopping to admire some of the small waterfalls and moss-covered rocks I passed on my rush to reach the summit. The woods were quiet, I didn't hear hardly any birds, and, sadly, there were no owls.

Panoramic view from Owl Head Lookout

Sawteeth Mountain Solitude

The peak of fall colors on Columbus Day from Owl's Head Mt

This time of year is not my favorite. While autumn tops most northeastern people's list of favorite seasons, it sits near the bottom of mine (right above winter). Sure, it's a lovely season, and this year's colors were phenomenal, but as the precursor to a long season of snow, cold, and darkness, I just can't love it. I'm a sun lover, and the more sun there is the happier I am. Last winter I thought of buying one of those indoor UV lights that emulate the sun to see if it bettered my mood. Then I opted to take a cruise to the Caribbean instead. As the days grow shorter my mood changes and I spend more time indoors, which started happening when we had a bout of bad weather two weeks ago. Daylight savings this weekend could have been the doom of me, but this year I'm fighting back. On the first day of ridiculously early darkness I climbed Street and Nye, on a sunny but cool day. Yesterday I awoke before sunrise and climbed Sawteeth, and in this hike I realized that the one redeeming quality of the cold and dark months is solitude.

Sun peaking through the cliffs over Lower Ausable Lake.
 Sawteeth Mtn. is on the right

When I arrived at the Lake Road parking area I was the only car in sight. At the trail register I was the first one to sign in for the morning. I arrived at Lower Ausable Lake an hour or so later, just in time to watch the sun rise over the eastern cliffs above the lake. The entire hike was silent but for the almost constant call of Pine Siskins overhead, a species from boreal Canada that only comes into the U.S. every 2-3 winters, and this year they are arriving in record numbers. They sound a lot like a flock of the more common American Goldfinch, but with a buzzy zeeeeEET call that distinguishes them as siskins. The highlight of my ascent occurred about 3/4 of the way up where the forest had mostly transitioned to balsam fir, when I heard a pair of Brown Creepers calling. A little pishing brought the creepers to a tree just a few feet away, and then they were joined by 3 Boreal Chickadees. Hands down Boreal Chickadees are my favorite bird, and seeing them is the highlight of most of my high peak ascents. I tried feebly to snap some pictures to share, but I didn't have my telephoto lens with me so my pictures were unsuccessful. They are quite adorable, though, brown where a black-capped chickadee is black, and often just as friendly. They rarely stick around for long, though, so I was soon on my way.

Some steep icy pitches to contend with near the summit.

Shortly after the much-needed bird distraction I arrived at the trail junction to Gothics via Pyramid. I've always wanted to climb Gothics, so this junction was tempting, but Sawteeth is the more reasonable choice for icy November. The ADK guide describes the trail to Sawteeth after this junction as being mostly level, with one steep pitch with poor footing. The sign at the junction tells me that this is impossible, as I still have 500 feet to climb. Sure enough the trail continues to climb and I encounter 3 steep pitches, one of which is coated in ice and puts my microspikes to brief use. The 3rd pitch is the trickiest, and I dread having to descend it later. The consolation to these steep pitches is the incredible view of Gothic's bare rock slides looming over me as you get closer to the summit. The trail does level off after this bit and is a lovely walk through stunted balsams and alpine grasses, complete with one more Boreal Chickadee calling. The summit is mostly surrounded by trees except for one rocky outcropping which offers an unbelievable view of Gothics and the rest of the Great Range, with Marcy peeking out just behind these picturesque peaks. The sun is shining bright but a small group of clouds clings to Marcy, clouds that will roll in and steal the sun shortly after my ascent. Fortunately I snap numerous pictures while the sky is still blue, and then a few more when it turns to gray.

The Great Range including Saddleback, Basin, and Gothics from the summit of Sawteeth.

I settle down on the summit to eat and rest, taking in the view and the incredible feeling that being alone on a mountaintop brings. It occurs to me that not only do I have the entire peak of Sawteeth to myself, but that I could quite possible have the entire great range to myself on this late autumn day. It occurs to me that maybe fall isn't such a bad season, as once a little snow and ice falls on the peaks it weeds out the majority of high peaks hikers. Until my purchase of microspikes just last week I was one of the people who would have been weeded out. My persistence in continuing to climb as late as I can this year is rewarded by solitude and silence. In between gusts of wind I relish the sound of absolute silence, something that is increasingly difficult to find in this world. The silence is broken only once by a flock of White-winged Crossbills, another boreal species that sometimes visits in the winter. I am fortunate that one stops by for a moment on a perch just above me for admiration, a rare sight. The worst part of climbing the high peaks is having to leave the place you worked so hard to get to so soon.
 
My feeling of solitude continues for the entire walk back to the trail register. When I sign out I see that other hikers came in after me, but they all headed to peaks on the eastern side of the lake, so I was in fact alone. I suppose its possible that there was a hiker or two somewhere on the great range that came in on a different route, but I like to think that it was just me. That is one thing that wouldn't be possible on a warm summer's day, making me appreciate fall just a little bit more.

Gray Jays--to feed or not to feed?

Two days ago I encountered a very bold Gray Jay atop Pierce Mountain in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. This was my first ascent of a high peak outside of the Adirondack 46, where Gray Jays are not found on summits but are instead uncommonly found in a few of the park's lowland bogs. The most reliable spot to see Gray Jays in the Adirondacks is at Bloomingdale Bog, where locals have begun feeding the Gray Jays in recent years and now they almost always swoop in looking for a handout. I visited the bog a few weeks ago with a friend who hadn't seen the Gray Jays before, and I have to admit that I shared a little of my flaxseed nutrition bar with one of the jays. As a biologist I know that its bad to feed the wildlife, but its tough to convince yourself not to when a Gray Jay cocks its head at you looking for food. As I fed this one bird I wondered where the others were (I've seen up to 5 at this one location), and then noticed them flying back and forth further up the path. Further investigation revealed that the jays were collecting cat food that had been left on a stump by prior visitors. I question why anyone would think that cat food is a more suitable source of energy for a jay than birdseed, but they jays certainly didn't mind. The jays quickly realized the cat food was tastier and more easily accessible than our granola bars and lost interest in our handouts, so we moved on.

Only a couple of years ago Gray Jays were difficult to spot in Bloomingdale Bog, and seeing one was a rare treat. Even now the jays approach people with caution, but will usually land on a hand if one is stays relatively still. The Gray Jay that I encountered on the top of Pierce Mountain had lost all fear of humans, and landed on one of our packs the moment we set them down. In this instance I was not tempted to feed the ballsy little critter, but rather snapped pictures while another hiker shared a good portion of his nutrition bar. I was able to snap some fantastic photos, and since the jay stuck around for a while I even grabbed a nice shot of it perched in front of nearby Mt. Eisenhower. In fact, this jay stayed around as long as we did, and I wonder how many hikers he steals from a day, especially during peak season.

Gray Jays are infamous across most if their range, which includes most of Canada, Alaska, and boreal regions of the United States. They are known as "robbers" around campgrounds, where they can become as pesky as a flock of gulls at the beach. The Gray Jay, however, I think is more justified than a pesky flock of gulls stealing food beside an ocean teeming with prey, because Gray Jays occupy one of the harshest environments on the planet. The summit of Pierce is only 3 miles away from and 2000 feet below the summit of Mt. Washington, a mountain famous for having some of the coldest temperatures and highest winds in the lower 48. Even in lowland Bloomingdale Bog winters bring a persistent snowpack and temperatures as low as 30 degrees below zero on the coldest nights. Gray Jays and other boreal birds have adapted to these harsh conditions by "cacheing" their food when its most readily available, an action by which they store small amounts of food in hundreds of locations each season in the hopes that they will remember where they hid it and that they will find it before someone else does. This is clearly what the Gray Jay in Bloomingdale Bog was doing when we shared food, as it would fly off each time and wouldn't return for a few minutes--it seemed it was taking the time to find some good hiding spots. Without caches of food Gray Jays would have a difficult time to maintaining their body heat on cold winter days, where snowstorms may prevent them from finding fresh food for days.

So is it wrong to feed the Gray Jays? The arguments against feeding wildlife should probably be applied to Gray Jays even though they live in such harsh conditions. Feeding wildlife can inhibit the ability of wild animals to forage for food on their own, especially in the case of young birds who should be learning to forage from their parents. While Gray Jays are fairly social creatures and may remain in a flock through early winter, by mid-winter a young bird must strike out on their own to establish territory and find a mate in time to breed in early spring. A young bird that has relied only on handouts may not be able to effectively forage for food in a territory without human food as a supplement. Last winter I actually found a dead Gray Jay in Bloomingdale Bog in a different part of the bog from where people regularly feed them, and wondered if dependence on human food played any role in it not surviving the winter. Seems like a good argument against feeding them, but then I thought--what is the difference between hiker's handouts and the birdfeeding station at a house just up the road where Gray Jays also visit? If dependence on human food can negatively affect a population, why are birdfeeders so widely accepted? This past summer I watched as many of the birds around my yard disappeared for about a month, and slowly returned with fledglings in tow to teach the young birds that my birdfeeders were a god source of food. Have my birdfeeders also doomed these birds to have a lower survival rate when they strike out on their own and settle down where there isn't a birdfeeder nearby?

I welcome any comments or suggestions on the topic. In the meantime, with the abundance of people and birdfeeders in the areas Gray Jays have come to occupy in the Adirondacks, I think I'll bring some birdseed with me next time...

A Blog is Born

Starting a Blog is an endeavor I've thought about quite a bit over the past year, as my work as an ornithologist has brought me to many unique places and has led to many unforgettable experiences. The idea did not come to fruition sooner because travelling never allowed me the time or energy to write, but now that I'm re-rooted in my home of the Adirondack Mountains I have the time and the inspiration to start sharing my experiences.

A family of Common Loons on Taylor Pond

In the past year I worked in six states on various bird projects as a field biologist, more on that later. I worked with birds ranging from a small shorebird called a Red Knot to the well-loved Common Loon to predatory Peregrine Falcons. I worked in oceans, beaches, marshes, lakes, forests, and bogs. I've seen over 200 species of birds in my travels this year. I thought that when I returned to the Adirondacks I'd be less happy than I was before my travels, missing sights like flocks of shorebirds combing the beaches, dolphins jumping at the bow of our boat, and Gannets diving at schools of fish from the air. But more than ever I realize that my heart belongs to the Adirondacks, that those sights cannot compare with sights like a boreal chickadee flitting around a spruce tree, tamaracks turning golden yellow in the fall, or miles of continuous forests spread beneath you when you stand atop a mountain.

View of Keene Valley and the High Peaks Range from Giant Mtn.

I know that there are others who share this love of the Adirondacks, or a similar attachment to the place in which they live and explore. And I know that there are many others who, though they enjoy nature, miss the many wonders that nature offers on a daily basis. Like the emergence of a dragonfly, the blooming of the first trillium, the migration of wood frogs in late summer, or the irruption of pine siskins from the north in winter. I hope that my writings will find both kinds of people--those whose feelings echo my own and those who wish to know more about the world of plants and animals around them. I plan to to share the emotions that nature invokes in me, the knowledge I've gained about the natural world as a biologist, and the photos that I take in an attempt to capture nature's beauty. Feedback and questions are always welcome. Happy reading!