The Big Day(s)

Most of this story was written earlier this year:

Most people try to go for a Big Year - travelling many miles to get the longest list of bird species possible.  I've known people who have completed, or are in the process of completing, their Big Years.  Books have been written, movies have been made, stories have been told.  The Big Year is a big deal.

For me, so far I’ve only had a Big Day - well, make that two.

So here is how my first day went.

Thursday, March 22, 2012 started at a balmy 8°C predicted to rise to a high of 20.  Thanks to a week of temperatures with highs in the 20s and lows above 0, the snow was completely gone, even the packed ice tucked into the shadows.

I had stayed up late the night before and so slept in, rising just before 9 a.m. with little expectation for the day except to pull some garlic mustard and spend some time on the computer.  As usual, the blue jays were scolding me for not yet having given them their peanuts; the goldfinches and pine siskins were twittering and buzzing in the trees and above all this, the grackles and red-winged blackbirds were making their presence known.

My morning starts with hanging out all the birdfeeders that have to be brought in every night to prevent the raccoons from emptying them.  Next, I smear the peanut butter on the spruce and apple trees.  Then I fill the pail with sunflower seeds, two tubs of peanuts in the shell and the scoop and I walk the path around the property, tossing seed here and stuffing peanuts there.

And as I walk, I listen for the birds.

Over there, on an out-of-sight pond, the Canada Geese are bickering with each other.  In that field over there, two sandhill cranes are probably courting while a third further to the east is bugling.

This morning, someone else is making itself heard.  I’ve been fooled before by blue jays and starlings that like to mimic other birds so, for now, I’m ignoring the sound.

A raven, usually pushed further north with the arrival of the crows, croaks over the field despite the crow cawing to the south.

The robins are lilting from the tree tops and whinnying in the field.  A song sparrow is belting out its song to whomever will listen.

Two dark-eyed juncos rummage in the brush pile, their white outer tail feathers flashing in the sun.

Cowbirds have joined the flock of red-wings and grackles, their gurgling barely heard over the cacophony of the others.

The meadowlark has raised its bill to the clouds and is releasing its clear and beautiful tune to the sky.

A phoebe flies into the top of the poplar, wagging its tail as though trying to find its balance.  Another calls relentlessly from the barn roof next door.

And this is just the first 30 minutes of this day.

Inside I go to take care of some business on the computer, the binoculars always at hand.

The hairy woodpecker has flown in to enjoy some peanut butter and a second is now chasing it and scolding.

The mourning doves float down from the dead elm to snag some sunflower seeds before the blackbirds eat them all.

A downy woodpecker is hammering pieces of peanut out of the peanut feeder and a white-breasted nuthatch is waiting on the branch above, hoping to get a piece of peanut for itself.

Through the kitchen window, I see the red velvet of male purple finches with their less colourful females ready to take flight in case the cat next door decides to make a visit.

A couple of chickadees flit in and out, holding sunflower seeds between their feet and still, somehow, remaining balanced on the tiniest of twigs.  A few fierce taps and the seed is opened to reveal the treasure inside.

It’s almost noon by now.  Time to stop for lunch.  I decide to sit outside and read for a while.

I’m firmly ensconced in my chair, book in hand, empty cup of tea beside me, when I hear a whisper of something.  Looking up, I see that the pileated woodpecker female has landed less than ten feet away from me.  I watch as she pulls some of the remaining peanut butter off the spruce bark and cleans her bill by wiping it on the tree.  Slowly she moves over to the right to sit in the sun, her red cap blazing.  Eventually she flies off, her white wing patches flashing.  Gone over the hedge, she yells out her call as though thanking me for providing the peanut butter.

Before heading in to get out of a sun that is too hot, I’m able to add starlings to my list as they whistle and chatter from the maple over the shed.

Late afternoon and time to get outside again.  From up in the treetops, the high-pitched call note of golden-crowned kinglets can be heard.  The birds are deep in the spruce and unseen.

And hark, there is that sound that I had heard in the morning.  Pulling out the iPod, I’m able to confirm that a red-shouldered hawk is announcing its presence.

As I enter these two birds on my list, I realize that I haven’t yet seen the eastern bluebirds that had arrived earlier in the week.  Looking over at their nesting box in the neighbour’s yard, that could be a bluebird I see in the lilac tree.  Then another bird flies in - the male with his back glowing blue.

It’s early evening and I have decided to walk out into the neighbour’s field where the woodcocks have been peenting for nearly a week.  I have yet to see one go through its routine though I have heard a lot of twittering high in the sky.

Before I can reach the edge of my property, I hear the unmistakable gobble of a male turkey.  I have a thing for turkeys so I rush through the fence and meet up with the neighbours.  All of us head to the north field where a flock of 20 turkeys is milling about.  There are at least 12 males, their short beards indicating that they are probably jakes.  Not a long beard in the lot but a bevy of fanned tails, blue heads and puffed out chests.  These boys are duking it out.  Six of them come together, bumping chests and occasionally kicking.  Our arrival at the edge of the field spooks them and they head further north.

As we head back to our houses, it has become dusk and the woodcocks start their performance.  I get to see one rise in the air until it is so high it can’t be seen until it starts circling downwards.

And with that, my Big Day ends.  I could, perhaps, have headed out again when it was fully dark to catch the saw-whet owl calling or maybe see the flying squirrel gliding in but the day was full enough.

I’d been able to get 28 species in this, my unplanned Big Day, all without even leaving my property.

And that was my story until yesterday happened.

After that warm bit in March, the weather turned cold again.  No more snow but temperatures below normal.  Birds that had returned early suffered badly.  With luck, many managed to fly back south again.  Without luck, many probably died.  April was a COLD month.

May dawned with projected daytime highs in the high teens.  Birds started moving north again.  And on May 3, I was, once again, rewarded for my bird feeding activities.  Many of the birds that appeared on my March list appeared again.

The geese and the turkeys were there in the field.  The usual suspects - mourning dove, blue jay, downy and hairy woodpeckers, chickadee, white-breasted nuthatch, pine siskin, purple finch and goldfinch - remained loyal customers.  They were joined by red-winged blackbirds, grackles and cowbirds.  Meanwhile, crows cawed, phoebes phoebe'd, robins lilted, starlings whistled and the meadowlark once again raised its bill to the sky and released its beautiful tune to the sky.

Over the field, the snipe winnowed and the red-shouldered hawk kee-year'ed.  The flicker repeated its endless song and a yellow-bellied sapsucker began its rapid drum, slowing down to a few repeated taps.  Two brown thrashers compete with their rambunctious repetitions.  Sparrow galore showed up - song, savannah, field, chipping, dark-eyed junco, white-crowned and my favourite, the white-throated, oh sweet canada canada canada.

I'm sure I hear an oriole so I make a batch of nectar and put up the new oriole feeder which includes a cup that holds half an orange.  Not half an hour later the orange is being devoured by a bird equally as orange.  At the other nectar feeder, a male ruby-throated hummingbird arrives - the first of the year.

A red-tailed hawk checks out the territory, terrifying the birds so they quickly take flight or freeze unmoving on feeders.  When the hawk is gone, the beautiful male rose-breasted grosbeak fills an empty stomach at the sunflower feeder.

Finally, as I bring the feeders in for the evening, the woodcock peents and the whip-poor-will says its name, over and over.

By the end of the day, a magical 37 species of birds had made their presence known.  Once again, I had not had to leave my property.  Imagine how grand a day here will be when the vireos return and the warblers migrate through.

I can't wait!