Flow On

Water-side trail at Falling WatersIn the final chapter of The Hudson, Carl Carmer writes of how he imagines the Hudson developing, changing, flowing on. The book, published in 1939 as part of the Rivers of America Series, remains a wonderful resource about the history and quirky stories of the river and Carmer is a lively story teller. That Carmer chose to imagine the future is a wonderful task: what might I see if I squinted past tomorrow? It’s not something I have been good at in my own life. Never could I have seen myself living in the Hudson Valley and teaching writing. And yet that I am here feels most natural.

Bloodroot in bloomCarmer cheered that people, ordinary people, were gaining access to the land along the shores of the river, land that had for so long been the preserve of the rich. The rich included the Livingston, Astor, and Vanderbilt families, all of whom had many estates with views that spanned the river.

The movement from rich to ordinary involved an influx of religious from Father Divine and his cult at Crum Elbow to the Ursline nuns in Beacon. When Carmer wrote, of the eight country seats, thirty-three were no long operated as estates and nineteen were medical education or religious institutions. “Thus in a strange way the people have won the river,” Carmer applauds.

Carmer writes about John R. Stuyvesant’s home, Edgewood, three miles north of Poughkeepsie that was sold to the Jesuits and was renamed St. Andrew’s-on-the-Hudson. This Jesuit monastery has become the Culinary Institute of America (known to locals as the CIA). Could he have imagined how these properties would flow on to the next generation?

A property in Saugerties, a  town on the western short of the river just a bit north of Tivoli, has also flowed into the hands of anyone who wants to take a walk by the river. The northern end of the property belonged to Gilbert Spaulding, not one of the rich of the valley, but rather a veterinarian. He named the property Falling Waters, which remains to this day. The Dominican Sisters bought this property in 1931, as well as land where a former ice house operated, in 1932. And there the sisters had a summer vacation retreat. The sisters remain on the property, but they have opened up a portion of it for people to enjoy. Working with Scenic Hudson and the Esopus Creek Conservancy, the sisters have built a system of trails, with stunning views of the river. From time to time a bench invites walkers to sit by one of the two waterfalls. It is one of the few places along the river where you can walk in the woods and skip a stone on the Hudson River.

That is where Peter and I were headed on a drizzly Saturday morning. We had started our day at the Great Vly, a swamp just north of Saugerties, where we were delighted by Virginia Rail skulking its way through the reeds. Coots with their startling white bills hid among the reeds, and Tree Swallows, newly returned, swooped low over the water. Wood ducks took flight making their crying sound, while Horned and Pied-Billed Grebes floated on the placid water. Grebes are neat birds, with lobed toes that make walking on land difficult. So they mostly swim, float, and build floating nests (which I have never seen). The Pied-billed Grebe has a goofy thick bill that makes it one of the cutest birds on a pond.

We then drove to Falling Waters, cheered by our sightings. Had we stopped there, our day would have felt complete. But there’s a hunger that takes over after seeing a few good birds, all of these migrating through. Perhaps there were other treasures that had flown in through the night?

The trails at Falling Waters are gentle, winding through the woods, with strategic views onto the river, east to Magdalen Island, and north of that the Village of Tivoli. I always enjoy viewing my village from a different perspective, to see the crooked line of Friendship Street and the houses that open out to the water. But they are gazing across the railroad tracks. Here, no tracks ran nearby to jar our walk. We passed vinca in bloom and Bloodroot as well. Spring is here.

In the next two hours we had an assortment of ducks that had us grinning with excitement, above all the Long-tailed Ducks, with tails that look like they are a radio-receiver. There were Bufflehead and a Double-crested Cormorant. The Cormorants would stick around through the summer but the other birds were just moving through, all part of the cycles of a bird in migration.

The day seemed complete, but we couldn’t help ourselves; if these birds were floating through what other migrants might also be in the area? It was my first day of spring break, and I had promised myself a rest from papers and grades. So there was no reason not to head back to the water’s edge.

Our good luck continued with more Bufflehead on the water, joined by Green-winged Teal and to Peter’s disbelief five Red-breasted Mergansers. We stood on the edge of the river, which was at low tide, to get a better look. Indeed, the birds did have dark chests and wispy crests, unlike the more rounded head of the Common Merganser.

It was dusk when we drove out of the parking lot, tired from gazing onto the gray waters of the river, the light shimmering through thick clouds.

View North from Falling Waters“Let’s check the waterfront,” I suggested. Glasco has a small waterfront park, situated on the water in front of their water treatment plant. Birds often congregate there. My suggestion felt like greediness of another order.

“You don’t stop, do you?” Peter asked with a grin, turning toward the waterfront.

We pulled out the scopes, scanned the river.

“My god,” Peter said.

I peered into his scope. More Long-tailed ducks. I grinned.

We scanned some more.

“My god,” Peter said. He stepped away from the scope. “Just look.”

I looked, recognizing right away that we had some more Grebes. This time, Red-necked Grebes, a bird I had never seen before, bobbing in the fading light. Two neat birds with elegant flat heads, and red necks. They were making their way north, to breed somewhere in the Arctic.

Flow on. Flown on. Water, land and air: movement is inevitable. Land changes hands, birds fly north then south. Rivers are movement; this river carries birds and trash and once carried bricks and ice. Sometimes this flow is encouraging, sometimes unnerving, but always it is inevitable. To walk on some of the land of change, to see some of the flow in the fading light of a gray day makes me feel lucky. Flow on.   

First Bird of the Year (FBOY)

The birders standing around with scopes and binoculars at the small park that borders the Shawangunk Grasslands National Wildlife Refuge are discussing the first bird of the  year, putting their wishes out over the grass fields. “I hope it’s not a Tufted Titmouse,” one says and everyone laughs.

What everyone fails to notice is that the last—or near last—bird of the year is pretty spectacular. Take your pick—in front of us are soaring about a dozen Northern Harriers, their sleek fast bodies just above the grass line as they hunt near dusk. There’s the dark morph and the light morph Rough-legged Hawk, both impressive perched in a tree. And then, what we are all here to see: the Short-eared Owls, large floppy wings taking them to the far reaches of the grasslands. They perch in the trees, ghosts in the twilight, then take flight, like oversized moths, the flight jagged; if you tried to catch one you would miss.

Peter and I loiter at the grasslands—it is warm out, in the fifties, so loitering is possible (past years I’ve frozen waiting for the owls). This natural area is wide and beautiful. If you squint, you can imagine you are somewhere in the Midwest, where fields trail on for miles. This was a airfield, used for military training. In the past year the state has ripped up the asphalt landing strips and seeded the area with grass and wild flowers. Even with the asphalt it was a place that the owls migrated to in winter. In the long grass must be a wonderful store of mice or voles. 

As the sun sets, an owl swoops near to us, its eyes visible in its disc-like face. It’s a phantom from the other side, a ghost from the past. We stand for a while taking in the sight of the owl, the cold and hunger push us back toward the car. When we arrive at the small parking lot, an enormous flock of Canada Geese honk their way overhead, heading for a night’s roost.

The first bird of the year is symbolic, sets the tone for the year to come. It’s a sign of good luck, perhaps. Peter and I both want the first bird to be an owl. So Peter sets a baby monitor on his front porch and we fall asleep hoping a hoot will wake us. What does wake us near dawn are coyotes howling.

January 1, I’m hesitant to go outside. “What if my first bird is a Tufted Titmouse?” I joke.

“Just plug your ears,” Peter suggests.

When I step outside the first thing I hear is the distinct caw of a Crow. Though some would rather that the crow not be their first bird, this crow cheers me. Crows are magnificent birds, smart and with a complex family arrangement. They are common enough, but still special: big and black and bold.

Our visitor from the past; photo Peter SchoenbergerWe are driving out to explore vast fields, lost empty land in the city of Kingston. Peter’s first bird flits in front of the car: Junco, that gray and white visitor from the north. Ok, so this isn’t a Barred Owl. Or, like last year, the Great Horned Owl. But not a Tufted Titmouse.

“At least I can be happy that my last bird of the year was a Short-eared Owl,” I muse as we hurtle down the road into our day.

“No it’s not,” Peter says. “Canada Geese.”

He’s right, of course. Keeping me honest for the New Year.

Counting Birds

Last March Peter spread detailed road maps of the mid-Hudson Valley across his dining room table. He spent hours with a compass, analyzing roads and the Hudson River, bays, marshes, cities. Finally one day he plunked down that compass on the town of Glasco, right on the banks of the Hudson River and drew a circle with a fifteen mile diameter. It covered both sides of the river, Ulster and Dutchess counties, with a smidgen of Columbia county in there as well. There were rich sections in this circle like the north and south Tivoli Bay and the Esopus Bend Preserve in Saugerties. But above all, the count circle included the Hudson River. And thus, a new Christmas Bird Count circle was born. Mark DeDea was the inspiration for the circle; Peter was the map man. Forty eight of us headed into the field on December 28 to count.

I joined Peter in sector D, an area in Dutchess County that includes the vast Grieg farm where several special birds were found this fall: a Red Phalarope, a LeConte’s Sparrow and a Nelson’s Sparrow. We rose at 4:30 to find owls. The first two locations we called left us with the deep silence of night. A final try brought two Screech Owls singing their crazy song from one side of the road, with a chorus of a Great Horned Owl hooting in from the other side.

At seven, we were joined by Cathy, a newer birder, so I instantly had sympathy with her. “Ask questions,” I encouraged. “Make sure you see the birds that are being called.” Also along was Vanessa, a post-doc in wildlife biology, who grew up in the Hudson Valley but was now living and working in Georgia. She got out of her car and her face lit up, “Horned Larks.” She had said she birded well by ear and she wasn’t joking.

We pulled on mud boots to walk across the Grieg Farm to find White Crowned Sparrows in the brambles near the barn and Pipits in the far field. The Pipits were in the furrows of the field, rising and vanishing so fast, their busyness dizzying. The sun hid behind gray clouds, and the temperature hovered just around freezing. Movement kept our spirits and temperature up.

The day unfolded like the treasure hunt that it is: the Cooper’s Hawk we for a moment thought might be a Goshawk; the Yellow-Rumped Warbler that flew off before we all got a good look; the Canada Geese that in fact were an enormous flock of Wild Turkey; the Bald Eagle that flew over the car; the Red Shouldered Hawk sitting serene and nearly invisible in a field; the chorus of Grackles, 2,500 strong; the Swamp Sparrow that Peter knew would be hiding out in a far swampy area of Grieg Farm.

Except for Grieg Farm most of the area we were counting in is rural, farmland,  ragged forests,  or small pockets of development in what was once an apple orchard. It’s not a place you’d come to in order to bird. And yet here we were, finding a wonderful range of birds—forty-eight species by the end of the day.

We got in and out of the car a hundred times, walked over five miles in fields and on roads, got cold, then hot, ate snacks to keep us going and talked about birds as we peered out the window looking for movement, shape, scoured the sky for a Vulture. “This is where we should find a Shrike,” we said again and again as we passed open, busy areas. But, the Shrike was not where it was supposed to be.

At the end of the day I had my eye on the map. What roads had we not driven/walked/scoured for birds. There is one short road at the edge of our sector, a nondescript road through the woods, with a cell phone tower looming nearby. We had half an hour before quitting time and to be thorough I thought we should at least drive down Whalesback Road. We got out of the car, and immediately were aware the woods were active: two Downy Woodpeckers, two Flickers, lots of Robins. We had a small surge of excitement over this find. Cathy, who had been quiet most of the day, had her binoculars to her eyes. “What’s that black bird?” she asked calmly.

Vanessa followed Cathy’s gaze and smiled. “A Rusty Blackbird!” A great find late in the day. Perhaps our best bird. I was delighted to realize how all four of us were needed to see, to identify, to count these birds. We were a great team.

But what I also realized is that as a person who associates animal life, bird life with natural places—with the Tivoli Bays (where they found nine Screech Owls!), for instance—that birds in fact are everywhere, anywhere. I’ve learned this again and again, that sometimes just a slice of good habitat is all a Rusty Blackbird needs. But this is so counter to all of my romantic notions of nature and its sacredness, my desire to see huge swaths of wilderness for the birds, other animals, for us. Seeking birds on count day takes me onto roads and fields and in these moments wild and what I consider human or built merge or alternate.  The line isn’t so clear out there. I like that the lines of my thinking need to be redrawn as well.

Of course the birds don’t know of these distinctions I make between what is nature and not. They just know where they can find food, shelter, a place to spread their wings. Is that not what I do as well? What we all do?

There’s something to learn from counting birds; there’s something to learn from birds.   

Harris

Harris's Sparrow taken by Peter Schoenberger“Harris is still there,” Peter tells me.

This has been his report every few days, since the 26^th of November. Harris is the Harris’s sparrow he found on November 26 in Berks County Pennsylvania while we were visiting his sister in Kempton. Almost a full month later, and Harris is still there.

“And people are still going out to look for it?” I ask, a bit surprised at the determination of birders.

“It’s an important bird,” Peter says, as if stating the obvious.

Whimbrel, photographer unknownThe Harris’s sparrow is named for Edward Harris, who also gives his name to the Harris’s hawk, the dark western species of the Hairy Woodpecker (Dryobates villosus harrisi), and to the Yuma Antelope Squirrel. Born in Moorestown, New Jersey in 1799, he was the heir  to his father’s fortune, made in hosiery. Early in life he befriended Audubon by buying his drawings--Audubon “would have kissed him, but that is not the custom in this icy city [Philadelphia].” Later, he slipped Audubon a hundred dollar bill, explaining, “men like you ought not to want for money.” He accompanied Audubon on his 1843 Missouri River expedition. There, he shot a small bird, or a large sparrow (depending on how you see it) with a black crown and throat, ash colored cheeks and a pink bill. Audubon named it Fringilla Harrisii, though the bird had already been named by Thomas Nuttall in 1834. Where the bird was found was on the eastern edge of their wintering range; it’s a bird that breeds in Canada’s boreal forest. So the bird we saw was far east of where it belongs. Far east.

When Peter found the Harris’s sparrow we were walking a nondescript small back road, scanning wide farm fields hoping to see snow buntings. Peter noticed sparrows in the dense brush and after pishing, a few birds sat up. In an instant he cried out: “Harris’s!”

It’s not a bird that I had even heard of. Peter had seen one other Harris’s sparrow in his life. That he knew right away what it was stunned me.

“A what?” I asked. He was too focused on making sure he was right in his identification that he didn’t answer.  I stood and looked around at the vast fields, at the simple patchwork of small farms. I knew I should be excited. This wasn’t just an unusual bird, it was a rare bird.

“The rarest bird I’ve found,” Peter explained later.

Red Phalarope, photo by Peter SchoenbergerI cataloged the rare birds Peter had found just this past year: a LeConte’s sparrow (in Dutchess County, NY), a Henslow’s Sparrow (near Ames, NY), (notice the emphasis on sparrows), a Whimbrel (on the Hudson River south of Saugerties) and a Red Phalarope (in Dutchess County, NY). In each instant, I got right away that they were special birds. I understood their specialness, but also, I could feel it in my bones. But the Harris’s sparrow was not making my adrenalin flow.

Perhaps it was because the day before we had seen a snowy owl, a special bird that is also big and white and adorable to watch? I can’t say. Some birds move me, others do not.

But what excited and intrigued us both was what were the chances that we would drive this back road? Stop at this spot and notice the sparrows? How many other rare birds lurk in the nondescript brushy rows in Pennsylvania? The mind starts to bend with the possibilities.

When Peter found the Red Phalarope on a vast vegetable farm in Red Hook, NY, he posted it to the bird lists. People swarmed from near and far to see it and in that mass of people were some good birders. Who found other good birds while they were there, like a Nelson’s Sparrow and a Lapland Longspur. That’s when Peter found the LeConte’s Sparrow. This phenomenon is known as the Patagonia picnic table effect. In Patagonia Arizona one rare bird was found at a picnic rest stop. Birders congregated, finding even more good birds. This birding phenomenon happens frequently, or frequently enough to have been given a name (posted on Wikipedia, no less).

But no other special birds have been found near the Harris’s (one person reported pishing out a big orange cat). It’s just Harris, one special sparrow on an unassuming back road in eastern Pennsylvania.

Quotes take from From Audubon to Xanthus: The Lives of Those Commemorated in North American Bird Names by Barbara and Richard Mearns.