At the Mic: Woody Bracey
Elwood D. Bracey, MD, is a retired physician who now lives in Treasure Cay, Bahamas, where he is very active in the birding community.
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January of 2012 started auspiciously. The early part of the month saw several productive Christmas Bird Counts and some rare birds in The Bahamas. And I watched the film The Big Year. Those circumstances persuaded me to challenge Tony White's single-year record of 198 species, and by the end of January, I was already up to 155, a new monthly record for me.
The Grand Bahama CBC tallied Western Kingbird, Hermit Thrush, Ruby-crowned Kinglet, Louisiana Waterthrush, and White-throated Sparrow, all very rare in The Bahamas.
A rough road trip to Hole in the Wall in southernmost Abaca gave us three Kirtland's Warblers. And the good birds just kept popping up.
All the expected wintering species were joined by a Swainson's Hawk (a first for the Caribbean, well photographed by Bruce Hallett at left) and a Horned Lark. The Horned Lark required a trip to Nassau, where the bird was feeding in the short grass of a golf course with Palm Warblers and Least Sandpipers.
A highly unusual Greater Scaup was well documented on Hobby Horse Lake, and the lone Anhinga on Paradise Island, later photographed by Linda Huber, may have been the last survivor among the birds that once bred there. I also added a Gadwall at Harrold and Wilson Ponds, a female Shiny Cowbird at Rainbow Chicken Farm, and the Cuban Grassquits and Pied Imperial Pigeons of central Nassau; those latter two species, introduced many years ago, are now well established, as is the Caribbean Dove, originally imported from Jamaica for hunting—and smart enough now to spend most of its time hiding in the dense understory of the Bahamas National Trust Botanical Garden.
The free-flying exotic waterfowl kept by Pericles Maillis in the western suburbs of Nassau often attract wild migrants, among them the beautiful male Northern Pintail that joined the Green-winged and Blue-winged Teal and White-cheeked Pintails on the pond.
More controversial was the Caribbean Coot, with its high white frontal shield, found on the abandoned Shark Golf Course; though the AOU recognizes this species, others, including David Sibley, have their doubts. I counted this species, and in fact found another good candidate later in the year on the pond at the Treasure Cay Golf Course; both were photographed by Tony Hepburn. A Black-headed Gull, present as an immature in 2010-2011, returned in 2012 as a handsome adult, molting into its dark-headed breeding plumage during its stay.
Back on Abaco, the Organic Vegetable Farm maintained its status a the best place to see Bahama Yellowthroats (hundreds!). We also had a Chipping Sparrow, a second White-throated Sparrow, American Pipits, and a young male Ruby-throated Hummingbird. Nine Barn Owls crowded into a single large ficus tree overlooking a recently plowed field, attracted by the same mice and rats that kept the Swainson's Hawk there all winter, too.
Several early February deepsea fishing trips turned up Magnificent Frigatebirds and Audubon's Shearwaters, but no Manx, which are possible at that time of year. A favorite spot for sparrows, the Big Bird poulty Farm south of Marsh Harbor produced such good wintertime finds as Lincoln's, Savannah, and Grasshopper Sparrows, along with American Robins, American Pipits, Dickcissel, Blue-headed Vireo, Nashveille Warbler, and a Northern Rough-winged Swallow. Most frustrating was a Swainson's Warbler that popped up for Bruce Hallett to photograph while I, just ten feet away, missed it. Nothing would bring that skulker back out again.
Spring migration can be a non-event in The Bahamas. But 2012 was different. I'd never seen so many migrants, especially thrushes and seed-eating birds. After a cold front with rain on April 24, I counted 20 Veeries, 24 Gray-cheeked Thrushes, and 2 Swainson's Thrushes at Angelfish Point. Later that day I had a Wood Thrush along the Treasure Cay sewage outfall. Four migrant thrush species in one day is a once-in-a-lifetime thing in The Bahamas!
Swallows were numerous, too, including Bank and Cliff among the commoner Tree, Barn, and Bahama Swallows. A lone Chimney Swift was seen high above the coppice, where I found Red-eyed Vireos and Eastern Kingbirds and yet more thrushes along a narrow trail. Our backyard feeder was a riot of color with Painted and Indigo Buntings galore, two Blue Grosbeaks, and a male Rose-breasted Grosbeak. The grosbeak stayed for a week, but a female Ruby-throated Hummingbird was a one-day wonder. That same last week of April saw such summer residents as Gray Kingbird, Black-whiskered Vireo, and Bahama Mockingbird return and set up territories, while Blackpoll Warblers continued to pass through until mid-May.
In early May, Bridled, Sooty, Roseate, and Common Terns followed the Least Terns back to The Bahamas. Then came the White-tailed Tropicbirds, the Antillean Nighthawks, and the Great, Cory's, and Sooty Shearwaters. Finally, on May 12, after hearing the birds deep in the coppice, I saw my first Key West Quail-Dove for the year at Angelfish Point.
June is the month for fishing tournaments and deepsea trips. We continued to see good numbers of pelagic species, including a Black-capped Petrel fifteen miles off Munjack Cay. Most exasperating was the mid-afternoon revelation one day by the mate that he had seen a "Jesus Bird" cross our wake earlier in the day; I never saw a Wilson's Storm-Petrel on a single one of the ten or more deepsea trips I made in 2012.
Abaco was quiet for the rest of the summer, but trips to other islands really helped my list. With the help of Ed Rahming and Lewis Phillips, my late-June adventure on South Andros added Great Lizard Cuckoo, Indian Peafowl, Bahama Oriole, and eleven Cave Swallows. In July, my wife, Betsy, and I added Pearly-eyed Thrasher and Red-footed Booby on San Salvador, where surprises included a Purple Martin, an American Avocet, and lots of Gull-billed Terns.
The expected Snowy Plovers were nowhere to be found, but the endangered subspecies of the West Indian Woodpecker was easy to find along Jake Jones Road.
A storm in late August brought some unusual fall migrants to New Providence. Most notable were the Arctic Tern and the two Black Terns seen on the stony shores of Lake Killarney by Paul Dean and Tony White and photographed by Tony Hepburn. By the time I got there, two other much-needed birds, a Sandwich Terns and a female Boat-tailed Grackle, had left: I would have to wait 'til later in the year for them.
Back on Abaco, we had the pleasure of the company of a young American Flamingo on Maillis's Pond through the summer.
Unbanded and not yet entirely pink, this was most likely a second-year bird. The flamingo departed at the end of September, but a Wilson's Phalarope, the first for Abaco, appeared on the very same pond October 2, spinning and feeding with several Greater and Lesser Yellowlegs.
At the Poultry Farm we had an Empidonax Flycatcher, an Eastern Wood-Pewee, two Blackburnian Warblers, and a tantalizing thrush. Browner than a Gray-cheeked Thrush, the bird did not vocalize, and though we suspected a Bicknell's Thrush, we did not count it. The farm near Treasure Cay gave us several sightings of a Philadelphia Vireo and a Great Crested Flyatcher, a Blackburnian Warbler, several Tennessee Warblers, and a lone Cedar Waxwing were at Robert's Nursery. Most exceptional was the second Bahamas record of a Warbling Vireo, seen on October 18 near Marsh Harbor with Becky Marvil, who got diagnostic photographs of the bird.
The arrival of Hurricane Sandy on October 26 was much worse than predicted. Three days later, I met Bruce Hallett and Margo Zdravokovic on Grand Bahama to look for birds blown in from the continent. An Eastern Bluebird, perhaps only the second record for The Bahamas, was feeding at West End among the distressed swallows, pipits, and Palm Warblers. The 25 Common Terns at West End Point were exceptional; among them were two Sandwich Terns, the only ones I saw all year. At McClean's Town, on the eastern end of the island, we found two Clay-colored Sparrows, well photographed by Hallett.
Back on Abaco, an Orange-crowned Warbler was in the Avocado Grove at the Big Bird Poultry Farm in mid-November, and a House Wren and a Swamp Sparrow, both extreme rarities, were photographed at the always interesting Cooperstown Dump. The next day I found a Wilson's Warbler at Robert's Nursery, and on November 23 I had a Swainson's Warbler in the exact spot at the poultry farm where Bruce Hallett had photographed the bird in the spring. That same day I watched a seemingly large, silent Myiarchus with a pronounced yellow belly. Brown-crested Flycatcher? Maybe, but it did not call, and I did not count it.
I thought I'd missed the Chestnut-sided Warbler for the year, but on November 28, one emerged from the deep coppice into plain view. Another miss avoided!
A visit to Great Inagua was essential for several species, so Hallett and I met in Nassau and went on to Matthewtown, the only settlement on the most southerly island of the The Bahamas. It had rained for two weeks straight, roads were flooded, the mosquitoes were ferocious. But we could watch thousands of courting American Flamingos, and we added Roseate Spoonbill, Snowy Plover, Burrowing Owl, and a bonus American Wigeon to my year list.
The most amazing sight was of a Peregrine Falcon nailing an exceedingly rare Greater Scaup on the ponds; the scaup survived, dazed. We were interested to find a population of Red Jungle Fowl living in the woods far from any human habitation; Warden Henry Nixon told us they had been there for years, but I listed Gallus gallus as an exotic, uncounted species.
Back in Nassau, on November 28 I saw a Caspian Tern from Tony White's deck. Tony, competitive as he is, congratulated me on breaking his Bahamas big year record—a real friend!
The end was in sight, and I made a big push in the last two weeks of the year with three Christmas Bird Counts. First up was South Abaco, where we located another House Wren. Nassau was next, with another Wilson's Phalarope loafing with the Black-bellied Plovers; a female Boat-tailed Grackel flying in front of my vehicle finallly checked off a bird I'd missed several times during the year. Two Bahama Mockingbirds, seen with the CBC compiler Neil McKinney, were also good finds for the early winter.
A sunny Christmas Day was made even more joyous when I saw my first Red-breasted Mergansers in over two years. The Green Turtle Cay mudflats were alive with shorebirds, including 52 Red Knots, an all-time high count for that species anywhere in The Bahamas.
Next morning I flew to Grand Bahama for one last shot at the scarce Brown-headed Nuthatch, which had eluded me three times during the year. On December 27, at our third and final stop, when my friend Bruce Purdy had already got back into the vehicle, I heard the call; not one but two of these little tree creepers came in close to pose for pictures, going up and down and upside-down on the Caribbean pines. What a delight, and what a brilliant end to my big year of 242 species!
New Year's Eve was a welcome end to the frenzy: it was our anniversary, and I promised my wife that she would be a bird widow no longer. Many thanks to her and to all my good birding friends for their help.
The Bare-Naked Big Walk
I can think of several essential ingredients for any successful birding “Big Day”—an effort to identify as many bird species as possible during a single midnight-to-midnight period. Here goes:
1. A good team.
2. A good route.
3. A good plan.
And I can think of two other Big Day essentials we tend to take for granted:
4. Good wheels.
5. Good optics.
Robert Mortensen probably saw the following a mile away: I recently completed a Boulder County, Colorado, Big Day that broke all the “rules.” Specifically:
1. I didn’t have a good team. It’s not that my team was bad. Rather, I had no team at all.
2. My route bypassed many, probably most, of the must-visit birding destinations in the county.
3. My plan, to the extent that I had one, was to head in a circuitously westward direction. Oh,
and I wasn’t going to miss lunch with my family.
As to transportation and optics:
4. I didn’t drive. I didn’t board a bus. I didn’t ride a bike. I walked. The whole way.
5. I left my binoculars and telescope at home. As Ted Eubanks might say, I went bare-naked.
This was some sort of gimmick, right? Or a fundraiser perhaps? Gimmickry is not beneath me, and I admire fundraisers, but, no, that’s not it. This was an honest-to-goodness, plain-old Big Day of the sort that Amar Ayyash and Greg Neise excel in.
I hope to convince you that not using a car or bike contributed to what was an enjoyable and successful Big Day. And now for the real heresy: I truly believe that not using binoculars helped my cause.
I’ll get under way with the recap in just a moment, but, first, let’s do the numbers:
My “Bare-Naked Big Day” route. Click here for a zoomable version of the map with stickpins showing the locations of notable birds seen or heard along the way.
There wasn’t a cloud in the sky at 4 a.m., but starlight was notably dimmed by heavy smoke from the Black Forest fire to the south. At a little pond to the north, western chorus frogs a few Woodhouse’s toads were going off. What would be first bird, I wondered? I soon got the answer: a sputtering Western Kingbird [04:07:59], one of the most expected and characteristic sounds of astronomical dawn in early summer in Boulder County. The next bird was delectably unexpected, but not at all implausible: an Eastern Screech-Owl [04:10:48], an uncommon permanent resident in the county. Those two birds, it occurred to me, wonderfully emblematize the East-meets-West quality of birding in Boulder County.
I started walking. Due east. So much for my “plan” to head west.
A Pied-billed Grebe [04:14:49] went berserk in a cattail marsh, a Mallard [04:17:01] quacked, and a Yellow-headed Blackbird [04:19:13] “sang” a “song” that only Mark Peterson could love. The anurans were still going at it, Capella and Fomalhaut were rising in the northeast and southeast, respectively, and an Eastern Kingbird [04:23:52] started calling. Next up were a female Great Horned Owl [04:27:53], a Killdeer [04:32:03], and an impressively bright meteor.
I passed South Teller Lake. A Blue Grosbeak [04:32:42] burst into song, and, a few minutes later, the Red-winged Blackbirds [04:35:44] were going at it. Next up were my first and only Common Nighthawks [04:36:35] of the day, followed by the first of the great throng of American Robins [04:37:47] that would keep me company all day long. A Western Meadowlark [04:38:24] followed, and then a Spotted Sandpiper [04:41:58]. I passed a few houses, where some House Sparrows [04:43:54] were stirring.
An instant later, I heard one of the greatest of avian “voices”: the spooky winnowing of a Wilson’s Snipe [04:43:55]; this non-vocal sound is given as air rushes through the tail feathers of a male in aerial display. It was still nearly an hour to sunrise, but a Grasshopper Sparrow [04:47:35] was singing steadily. This species often sings right through the nighttime hours.
The dawn chorus was going at full tilt now: Mourning Dove [04:53:40], Vesper Sparrow [04:54:16], Bullock’s Oriole [04:58:32], Barn Swallow [05:05:22], Yellow Warbler [05:06:03], Common Grackle [05:08:41], and House Finch [05:09:51].
I was getting into taller and wetter grass now, and I heard the strange, pulsing song of a Dickcissel [05:10:22]. A Big Day is no time to indulge my penchant for counting birds, but I couldn’t help myself: I would encounter a minimum of eight along this stretch of the trail. Until a few years ago, the species was uncommon, perhaps merely casual, in Boulder County. In recent years, though, the bird has been reliable here at Teller and elsewhere.
I nearly missed the next bird: a Savannah Sparrow [05:15:37]—two or three of them, actually. If I’d had a better plan (see Big Day essential #3, above), I’d have had a checklist with me. Glancing at a checklist every four or five minutes is an excellent way of pacing yourself, and of reminding yourself what to focus on—right now. I guess so. But I also don’t much care for routine and predictability, at least not while I’m birding. (Oh, but if you’re a contributor to Birding magazine, don’t you dare miss a deadline or mess up a possessive gerund.)
The next bird, my twenty-seventh of the morning, was the first I detected initially by sight. It wasn’t yet sunrise, but the shape of a flying European Starling [05:16:36] is distinctive. A moment later, I would hear its burry flight call, and that reminds me of something: Very, very few of the species on my list were seen-only. That’s not to say the silent birds weren’t special. I’ll talk about that later. Back to the dawn chorus: Western Wood-Pewee [05:21:00], House Wren [05:21:35], and Red Junglefowl [05:26:58].
What? A rooster? Are you crazy? Tell me this: What sound is more evocative of daybreak in the countryside? The idea that the species somehow doesn’t belong, that it doesn’t “count,” is patently absurd. The crowing of a rooster, the sweet smell of hay, a tractor rumbling to life, the first rays of sunshine—those things are the very essence of the new day.
More birds: Black-capped Chickadee [05:28:00], Black-billed Magpie [05:29:48], American Goldfinch [05:31:21], and, just east of Teller Lake No. 5, my only Bobolink [05:33:47] of the day.
Sunrise!—and time for some feedlot birding: American Crow [05:36:32], Brown-headed Cowbird [05:37:15], and Rock Pigeon [05:38:57] with the cows and horses at Teller Farm.
I crossed Valmont Road and continued in a generally northward direction, picking up Cliff Swallow [05:46:04], Red-shafted Flicker [05:47:01], Eurasian Collared-Dove [05:50:58], Blue Jay [05:52:03], Downy Woodpecker [05:52:33], Belted Kingfisher [05:55:34], White-breasted Nuthatch [05:56:01], Great Blue Heron [05:56:10], Red-tailed Hawk [05:56:11], and Common Yellowthroat [06:00:25].
Breakfast time, and what better place to pause than the typically productive southern floodplain of Boulder Creek. An Eastern Warbling-Vireo [06:02:50] sang directly overhead, and I audio-recorded its song. (No binoculars for me, but, yes, I brought along the VN-8100PC.) This was the first of a whopping eight of its kind I would find during the next several hours. I heard a Song Sparrow [06:04:26], I saw an American White Pelican [06:08:00], and I saw and heard—how could I not have?—a flock of Canada Geese [06:13:32].
Next up were two decent birds for Boulder County. First was a Willow Flycatcher [06:16:10] singing from a perch along Boulder Creek; the species (indeed, the same individual?) has been present here for several summers, and it may represent an unusual subspecies for Colorado. Second was a first-spring male Orchard Oriole [06:23:58] singing exuberantly from a tangle just north of the creek; this species reaches the extreme limit of its range in eastern Boulder County.
I wrapped up breakfast with a Yellow-breasted Chat [06:30:03] singing by the creek and a flyby Double-crested Cormorant [06:32:03], and then continued north across the floodplain. A few Bank Swallows [06:42:12] cruised about an irrigation ditch, and it was time for the long slog across Gun Barrel Hill. The Gun Barrel terrain is high, dry, and hilly, and the avifauna is relatively sparse. But you can find some good birds here.
(Left: Photo by © Tony Leukering.)
Continuing across Gun Barrel Hill, I added Say’s Phoebe [06:59:37] and Lark Sparrow [07:03:24]. Then a long stretch with no birds, and then a dandy: a Cassin’s Kingbird [07:40:08]. The bird wasn’t unexpected, I have to say: I’d seen one there earlier in the month, and multiples were seen back in May. In this vicinity, Gun Barrel Hill borders a residential stretch with decent plantings of piñon pines and junipers—great for birds with affinities with Colorado’s canyonlands.
I rounded a sharp bend and headed straight west. To my right, a few Horned Larks [07:47:30] were singing; to my left, a female American Kestrel [07:49:19] peered from a nest box. More piñon–juniper lay ahead—good for a singing Chipping Sparrow [07:51:44] and a Spotted Towhee [08:01:42].
Note to self: Bird here more often. This southwest corner of Gun Barrel Hill is the perfect refuge for birds straying from the canyon country of southeastern Colorado.
From Gun Barrel Hill, I meandered through the sprawling Heather Wood subdivision, and then south to the Boulder Creek crossing at 75th Street. Here I enjoyed another one of those bewitching East-meets-West episodes: American Dippers [08:21:05] bringing food to a nest and a watchful Eastern Phoebe [08:23:52].
As I crossed 75th Street, so as to get over to the always productive Walden–Sawhill Ponds complex, I noted a who-needs-binoculars adult Bald Eagle [08:30:59] and a screaming and circling Swainson’s Hawk [08:31:01]. The birding at Walden–Sawhill was slow but steady, yielding American Avocet [08:55:26], Snowy Egret [09:03:43], Wood Duck [09:07:14], Northern Rough-winged Swallow [09:13:11], Tree Swallow [09:14:19], Osprey [09:14:43], Hairy Woodpecker [09:16:59], Black-headed Grosbeak [09:20:36], Cedar Waxwing [09:22:49], Lesser Goldfinch [09:23:53], and Indian Peafowl [09:37:17]. (Click here if you need to be persuaded of the “countability” of the last species in the preceding enumeration.)
Walden–Sawhill is always good for non-avian spectacles, of which I saw several. For example: an adorable baby raccoon making some impressively loud whistling and warbling sounds. Also: several dozen birders out looking for a county mega found a few days earlier by Boulder County super-birder Christian Nunes. I delighted in the birders’ fine company, but assiduously avoided their optics and neurotically changed the subject at the first hint of conversation about finding birds.
I wound down my time at Walden–Sawhill with a careful inspection of Cottonwood Marsh. It took some patience, and I had to squint and crane my neck, but even without binoculars I was able to see Cinnamon Teal [09:56:06], Gadwall [09:57:58], White-faced Ibis [09:59:36], Great-tailed Grackle [10:11:00], and Western Grebe [10:11:33].
For a whole hour, I added nothing to the day’s list as I walked a long, barren stretch north along 75th Street and then west, west, west along winding Valmont Road. But things picked up near the intersection with 63rd Street. A house had feeders, and the feeder had a male Black-chinned Hummingbird [11:18:22].
I hooked up with the Boulder Creek Trail, and, over the course of several miles, added several more birds to my list: Lazuli Bunting [11:25:05], Cooper’s Hawk [11:58:04], Cordilleran Flycatcher [12:21:11], Violet-green Swallow [12:54:20], and Turkey Vulture [13:07:13]. I had an Alison Kondler sighting, too, along the trail. And as nice as it was to cross paths with Alison, I sighted something even more glorious: a water fountain, and not only that, but a working water fountain with cold water.
As I entered downtown Boulder, I channeled my inner John Vanderpoel. I was in Full Chase Mode now, and I detoured into the center of the city for a Chimney Swift [13:25:54].
Speaking of detours, I next made a big one: a sit-down, indoors lunch with Kei, Hannah, and Andrew. Somewhere out there, Jack Solomon saying, “I told you so.” The food was good, but better still was a change of footwear. Kei and the kids brought me my bionic boots, essential for the next leg of my journey, and check this out: They brought me clean, chilled socks. I can’t begin to tell you how good they felt. (Back to the boots for a moment: Yes, Joe Roller, the same pair that delighted you so when we birded together in Bolivia.)
Eh? You’re counting a hybrid?—between two subspecies, no less?? Relax. It’s my list. Not yours. But I’m not spoiling for a fight: I’ve elected not to count the bird. The things I do for the cause of birderly comity... :-)
(Right: Photo by © Bill Schmoker.)
At the summit (seriously!) of 9th Street, I ticked an unproblematic Broad-tailed Hummingbird [15:07:41], soon followed by a flyover Pine Siskin [15:08:48]. I next found my way to Ski Jump Trail, where I spotted a promising raptor that obligingly sailed right over, resolving itself into a Golden Eagle [15:21:21]. As I proceeded into the ponderosa pines, I found a couple of inevitable birds: Western Tanager [15:25:20] and Virginia’s Warbler [15:33:45]. And finally—finally!—I got the day’s first Common Raven [15:37:19]. How I missed that species back in Boulder proper is beyond me. (And I had a Vulcan mind meld with John Dillon: How come dog owners in Boulder County carefully and lovingly drape plastic bags full of dog doo from branches along the trail?)
From Ski Jump Trail I worked my way down to Gregory Canyon, which, in mid-June, is Boulder County’s version of The Magic Hedge. First up were a couple of birds that I think many of us associate with eastern North America: Rose-breasted Grosbeak [15:43:09] and Gray Catbird [15:45:00]. Then a light rain shower and a couple of inarguably western birds: Western Warbling-Vireo [15:51:51] and White-throated Swift [15:55:18]. (Don’t like the warbling-vireo? A little birdie tells me a forthcoming scientific paper may change your mind.) Then another “eastern” bird: Red-eyed Vireo [16:01:49]. Then a slew of westerners: Mountain Chickadee [16:01:59], Plumbeous Vireo [16:10:25], Bushtit [16:12:19], and Steller’s Jay [16:15:05]. And the most cosmopolitan bird of all: a wailing Peregrine Falcon [16:31:53] pulling up for a landing on a rock outcropping.
Gregory Canyon’s non-avian life forms were diversionary. I paused for a garter snake (Thamnophis, sp.) and a fence lizard (Scleoporus, sp.); where’s Joey Kellner when you need him? I delighted in all the two-tailed swallowtails and Weidemeyer’s admirals, I was transfixed by a plague of Putnam’s cicadas, and I was vexed by a beautiful green hairstreak in the genus Callophrys; where’s Dave Leatherman when you need him? Finally, the wildflowers were enchanting; where’s John Tumasonis when you need him?
Back to birding. An Olive-sided Flycatcher [16:47:08] cried out, a reminder that Gregory Canyon quickly ascends into the boreal zone. As if to emphasize the point, a calling Hammond’s Flycatcher [16:56:06] flew in close. Other birds followed in a steady procession: Pygmy Nuthatch [16:57:08], Rock Wren [17:02:04], Green-tailed Towhee [17:08:32], Canyon Wren [17:21:02], Red-breasted Nuthatch [17:21:24], MacGillivray’s Warbler [17:21:46], Gray-headed Junco [17:41:13], Wild Turkey [17:46:06], and a strikingly black-backed adult male Arkansas Goldfinch [17:47:05].
About a horizontal mile—and a substantial fraction of a vertical mile—from the trailhead, Gregory Canyon Trail becomes Long Canyon Trail. Along this stretch, the birdlife begins to take on characteristics of the spruce–aspen zone, and, accordingly, I found Brown Creeper [17:51:06], Audubon’s Warbler [18:00:40], Lincoln’s Sparrow [18:21:16], and Ruby-crowned Kinglet [18:22:08].
Long Canyon Trail ends at Flagstaff Road—which keeps going and going. And so did I, picking up a flushing Townsend’s Solitaire [19:04:14], a chorus of Hermit Thrushes [19:09:23], and a pair of Type 2 Red Crossbills [19:16:33] chippering their way across a clearing.
Kei and the kids pulled up beside me at 8 p.m. It would have been impolitic of me to ask that they just hang out there for two hours, you know, so that I could get up into better habitat for bluebirds (I thought I heard one) and sapsuckers (I saw drillings), and then Common Poorwill and the three species of small mountain owls.
Besides, it wouldn’t have been in the spirit of my break-all-the-rules Big Day. There was something fitting about walking—no, riding, finally riding—away from an easy five, probably closer to ten, additions to my list.
And there’s always next year.
In the meantime, I have a few questions, and you probably do too:
1. Let’s start with an obvious one. What birds did you miss?
Answer: Cottonwood Marsh and the various other ponds surely harbored a few silent birds that were too far away to ID without binoculars. Blue-winged Teal, anyone? Green-winged? American Coot? A night-heron or even a bittern roosting in the cattails across the way? And there was a decidedly interesting hawk at the base of Gregory Canyon; binoculars would have resolved it into an uncommon Broad-winged, or not.
2. Those are the birds you missed by going “bare-naked.” What birds did you miss by going “green”?
Answer: Along this particular route, nothing. On the contrary, I saw many, many more birds than I would have seen by birding this route in a car, or even a bike. I’ll take it a step further: This route would have been impossible and illegal except by foot.
3. That suggests another question: Did you gain any birds by going “bare-naked”?
Answer: It’s hard to prove, but I think so. Speaking for myself (but also, I suspect, for a great many of you), I find that binoculars are a crutch. Without binoculars, I enjoy a heightened sense of awareness. I’m always looking around. I’m always paying attention. I suspect I would have missed one or two species, maybe four or five, during all that time I would have been peering through binoculars at only a tiny fraction of the airspace visible to the naked eye.
4. Did you misidentify any birds?
Answer: Ouch. Let me back up a step here: I misidentify plenty of birds with binoculars. During the course of my Big Day, I endeavored to see birds at least as well as I would have with binoculars. That means I had to wait on some birds (cf. Golden Eagle), and let others go (cf. possible Broad-winged Hawk). But let’s take the broader view: Even if I missed a few (e.g., ducks at Cottonwood Marsh) and messed up a few (could the White-faced Ibises have been rare Glossy Ibises?), practically everything out there was slam-dunk. I’m increasingly impressed by just how unimportant binoculars and telescopes are. Optics are The Great Lie of birding.
5. Okay, but don’t binoculars enhance the birding experience?
Answer: That’s the conventional wisdom, but I’m seriously starting to question it. Ask me the next question.
6. What were your favorite birds of the day?
Answer: You think I’m going to mention a handful of “heard-only” birds, don’t you?—the winnowing Wilson’s Snipes, the dulcet Canyon Wren, the heavenly chorus of Hermit Thrushes. Actually, no. I can think of three sightings that surpassed any of those heard-only detections.
First was a Cedar Waxwing so close I could see the mid-morning sun reflected in its eyes. I just stood there, and the curious bird sidled down the branch to practically within arm’s reach. Is any bird more exquisite than the Cedar Waxwing? That question is definitively—and affirmatively—resolved, I believe, by beholding a waxwing with your own eyes, and nothing else.
Second was a Western Kingbird doing something I’d read about but never seen: landing, actually landing, on a Red-tailed Hawk it was driving off. The panoramic view, without binoculars, heightened the drama. And with binoculars, would I even have bothered to look? I mean, it was just a “boring” Red-tail...
(Left: Photo by © Bill Schmoker.)
7. You don’t plan ahead (except when you’re terrorizing contributors to Birding), but, come on: What’s your plan for next year?
Answer: I guarantee you, I won’t do this again. What I mean is, I won’t do the same route again. Here’s another guarantee: I’m hooked, and I’m doing it again. Somehow, I’m going to get from the marshes around Boulder Reservoir to the steep foothills of the Mesa Trail complex...
8. Are you finally going to submit to Listing Central?
Answer: First things first. Kudos to my colleagues Greg Neise and David Hartley for their hard work in providing this brilliant resource to the birding community. To answer your question: Yes, in due course. Especially if Neise gets around to creating an entry for bare-naked Big Walks.
9. Has anyone else ever done a Bare-naked Big Walk?
Answer: I wonder. I doubt it. Sixteen hours, twenty-five miles, no bins. But maybe Kenn Kaufman will inform me that, more than a century ago, Lynds Jones (1865–1951) was all over the bare-naked Big Walk.
10. Can your record be broken?
Answer: Easily. For Boulder County, my money’s on Joel Such and Marcel Such. Here’s a thought that’s personally gratifying: For once, the big coastal counties are at a relative disadvantage. Remember, no optics. Seabirds and such present challenges for the bare-naked birder.
I’ll take this a step further. I suspect my record will be demolished. I can’t say where, or when, or by whom. Of this I’m certain: 125 species—okay, “only” 120 if you don’t like my taxonomy and if you’re a peacock-hater—will be surpassed, by a very wide margin.
I have a final question, for you. What are your stories and strategies for bare-naked Big Walks? I’d love to learn more. Who knows—next year, I may even get a few of you to accompany me! Mark, Frank, and Chuck: Let’s do the Pittsburgh CBC bare-naked and on foot. And Noah: Next time, don’t sweat it when you lose your binoculars.
Jun 19, 2013 8:00:00 AM | Adventure, Commentary, Listing