Mad AZ Monk

Sure, Birds

Blogging's been tres erratique, I know, but current events have forced it a little lower on the priority scale.

Looks like I'm going to Mongolia for sure, with a working departure date of March 19 on a indefinite stay. So my little typing fingers have been busy with far-flung correspondence and mad research. I'm now at the point of recognizing I'll never be ready; I just gotta hold my nose, squinch my eyes and jump.

One cool outcome is contact from a dude named Axel, who bills himself as the Oriental Bird Club rep for Austria and Germany. A hotly contested posting, I'm sure, but he dropped a veritable crapload of high-quality intel on me from his extensive experience birding Mongolia. Invaluable. He gets a big ol' nomad bear hug from me.

So. In between dreams of Clamorous Reed-Warbler, White-backed Woodpecker, and Mongolian Lark, I've been doing a bit of birding here on a family visit to Maryland that I neglected when I actually lived here.

Finally, spurred by a bulge-eyed obsession with hitting 500 on my life list, I got to the mid-Atlantic seacoast.

Squired by Brit-twitcher Stuart, I reserved yesterday to bird a classic route from Ocean City, MD up to Broadkill Marsh in southern Delaware.

Nearing the shore, got a drive-by pair of Mute Swans as ABA birds.

We began in earnest at the Ocean City inlet with Stuart quickly snapping up a life Great Cormorant posing on a pylon. Moseying up the jetty, the seaduck population proved a little thin. Nevertheless, I added American Oystercatcher and Ruddy Turnstone to my list while Stuart ticked Purple Sandpiper. Isn't it funny how bird flocks act so differently in various locations? The PUSA's I saw in Maine were nervous birds careening in tiny squadrons from one distant rock outcropping to another. Here at the inlet, they were virtually kicking you aside to get at the little mussels blanketing the rocks.

Both Stuart's and my crests fell a bit, though, as our most hankered-for species -- White-winged Scoter for him and King Eider for me, failed to put in an appearance, nor would they the rest of the day (nor any alcids, for that matter). But I made the comment to him that maybe those birds are too good and we don't quite deserve them yet. He knew what I meant.

Next stop was Assowoman Wildlife Area, just into Delaware. I had only one thing on my mind -- Brown-headed Nuthatch. I was always under the impression that they only occured much further south, but this was supposed to be a hotspot for them. The whole experience was marvelous, walking cool winter-pine woods, tracking the little chips and twitters that promise a mixed foraging flock. You know how it is. There's nothing there and then suddenly you're surrounded. Carolina Chickadees, Golden-crowned and Ruby-crowned Kinglets, Yellow-rumped Warblers, Tufted Titmice, Cardinals, Brown Creepers, Eastern Towhees, Carolina Wrens, and Downy and Red-bellied Woodpeckers all competing for your attention at once. And then one bird alights and starts to corkscrew around a branch and you know you've got it. A gorgeously sunlit nuthatch, completing the set. Wonderful.

Proceeding to Indian River inlet, we were again puzzled by the sparse seaducks and grebes and I dipped on hoped-for Snow Bunting. But ~50 dark shapes out on a marsh revved my motor, and sure enough, there were my life Brants.

Tight on sunlight, we bagged Cape Henlopen and zipped up to Broadkill Marsh, part of Prime Hook National Wildlife Refuge. Main targets were Seaside and Nelson's Sharp-tailed Sparrow, but it was tough sledding. Light was waning and it was chilly; most of the sparrows were already hunkered down for the night.

But missing them was more than made up for by the unexpected spectacle of Prime Hook's roosting Snow Geese. Driving up to the beach, you pass an impoundment on the right and some open marshwater opposite. Cast across the surface of the impoundment is such a tightly-packed extravagance of geese that, at first, you literally don't know what you're looking at.

When we first arrived, there were, I guess, 20-30,000 Snow Geese floating and honking. But as we searched for sparrows and waited to see if a Short-eared Owl might commence its nightly hunt, thousands upon thousands more streamed in from their feeding spots, huge ragged lines strewn across every horizon. I can't even hazard a guess how many geese this location supports, but 100,000 wouldn't surprise me.

The most jaw-dropping moment came, however, when something disturbed the distant flock. We were perhaps a quarter of a mile away, scanning the vast short-reed marsh. Slowly, in a rolling crescendo, lifted a sound like what you would imagine from a capacity crowd at the Roman Colliseum, as two favorite charioteers thunder neck and neck, whipping their horses and each other around the final turn. But higher, more primal, like a host of angels registering some kind a cosmic surprise. Looking toward the sound's source, a far line of trees hid the impoundment. Geese crested the treetops in undulating ascension, billowing with graceful alarm until finally settling back, like a vast parachute freed from its undertension.

There are times when nature amuses or puzzles you, and then there are times when it overwhelms you with splendor. Never forget it as long as I draw breath.

Posted by MadMonk at January 8, 2005 11:48 PM