SPRING MIGRATION

Scarlet Tanager

This photo, courtesy Sharon Milligan, was taken on Dauphin Island at the shell mound in April 2008, following similar weather conditions to those described below.  See at the end of the article for details of a field trip to this very place this coming Saturday, April 2nd.

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The days of April are peak days of the spring migration along the Coast. In fair weather, any diligent birder can discover new arrivals to the Coast ... most of these fair weather arrivals are birds whose nesting habitat is right here in Mississippi. We find them today and thereafter, throughout the breeding season .. Parula Warblers, Kingbirds, Prothonotary Warblers, for example.

One would assume that birding in fair weather would offer ideal and leisurely study of the many migrants whose breeding grounds lie much further to the north. If one had the time for day after day observation, it is quite possible that, in ones and twos, we would eventually obtain brief, happy glimpses of a Cerulean Warbler or a Gray-cheeked Thrush, and many others of the better than 330 species of Mississippi birds. (Editor's note - this number in year 2016 is now at 422 species!)

When we consider that the nearest jumping off place is in Yucatan, 560 miles distant … and the assumed rate of land-bird travel is 30 miles per hour … there is a natural assumption that a 19-hour, over-water flight, even under ideal conditions, would result in exhausted birds eager to rest here.

But we fail to properly appreciate the tiny and wondrous warblers, whose average weight in prime condition may total just one ounce, or the delicate buntings whose endurance is a way of life. After advancing 560 miles over water, these and many other species keep right on going. They may rest about 50 miles inland, and resume their urgent flight as soon as darkness falls.

Going afield in fair weather and light southerly winds can be disappointing if one hopes to add a Baltimore Oriole to his or her list.

For it is the average cold front, with wind and rain, which forces the migrants to stop their journey. Caught over the gulf in bad weather, they must continue until they reach land, or perish in the sea. Buffeting winds and drenching rains decrease their speed and deplete their fuel supplies (fat). Upon reaching landfall, they flutter earthward in complete exhaustion.

If they have survived the ordeal in good shape, they may remain with us only until the weather clears. For this reason, the experienced birder will don a sou’wester to “Make hay while the rain falls!”

For birds who have barely escaped from harm’s way, their physical condition is poor. They will linger in fair weather to rest and replenish their reserves of fat.

Out of these beastly weather conditions can come a birder’s delight, but our gain in such cases is definitely their loss. Looking back to the second week of April, 1975, you may recall that weedy fields hosted flocks of Indigo Buntings and Blue Grosbeaks or that your feeding station suddenly became reactivated by blue clad sprites.

Baltimore Orioles and Painted Buntings clung to roadside brush like a profusion of blossoms, and high in the budding trees, one could clearly see the Scarlet and Summer Tanagers in brilliant reds and yellows. Diminutive warblers and vireos adorned the greenery … here a Blackburnian and there a Redstart … and in the fields, traditionally tree-top birds sought strength to fly again.

Large numbers of these colorful species lingered here on the Coast, but these displays are the result of bad weather. Untold numbers of migrants fell into the sea, or died of exhaustion after reaching land.

Remember that birding in light rain or after a cold front, can afford the watcher far greater numbers and species of brightly plumaged birds, at close range, than you would ever see in good weather.

Where to go? Under the conditions described above,  great birding is possible all along the Mississippi Coast… I would again recommend Buccaneer State Park, Belle Fontaine Beach, Magnolia State Park (now called Gulf Islands National Seashore) for the best concentrations, or find yourself a small green island right in your own neighborhood. (Editor's note: For current areas of birding interest, do refer to the Pascagoula River Audubon Society on-line birding Map)

As a loyal Coastian, I offer the following suggestions with chagrin ... the fact is that Dauphin Island, Alabama, and Cameron Parish in Louisiana, are ideally located meccas for the birder.

Editor’s note: This article was published in April 1977. Interestingly, the weather conditions Judy describes here may well apply to this weekend. And, coincidentally, this Saturday (April 2^nd, 2016) Mississippi Coast Audubon Society hosts a field trip on DAUPHIN ISLAND, led by veteran birder, and island resident, Don McKee. Meet at Cadillac Square, 661 Bienville Blvd, Dauphin Island, Alabama between 7:30 and 8:00 am.

EVEN EXPERIENCED BIRDERS CONTINUE TO LEARN

Red-bellied Woodpecker

Yellow-bellied Sapsucker

(Photos courtesy of Sharon Milligan)

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I suppose that one who is regarded as a teacher is expected to know it all, or most of it. Or at least pretend to. That would be pretentious. Actually, there are very few finites in birding; whether it's done at a professional or an amateur level, there is always something to be learned as we pursue the excitement, the wonder, and the adventure of birding.

   

    From a learning standpoint, some of my most gratifying moments have come just a few steps outside my door, and, surprisingly, they involve birds that are quite common.

    Just yesterday morning, I stepped outside for a listen (it works for me). The sounds went onto a mental list --- Mourning Doves, Eurasian Collared-Doves, Blue Jays, Fish Crows --- commoners, every one. I heard a one-note cry, baby-like, sort of "mewing," and it was sounding at about 8-second intervals. I confidently added Yellow-billed Sapsucker to the log, even though I couldn't recall hearing one call so persistently in the past.

    But I decided to stay out there for a while, and the more I listened, the less confident I became. For one thing, I couldn't find the bird. For another, the sounds continued for well over an hour, from the same place, fairly high up in the oaks. I thought to myself that it might have been a squirrel, but it didn't sound quite "squirrely" enough.

    The situation demanded a follow-through, so I spent another good half-hour scanning up and down the trunks and heavy tree limbs, to no avail. No sapsucker, no squirrel.

    I picked it up again later in the day, because I couldn't let things stay unresolved. I decided that the sound was coming from directly above me. Wry-neck had set in before I found a sapsucker, about 40 feet overhead; it was well-blended into the bark, and wearing the swaddling clothes that nature endows upon juvenile sapsuckers --- not a trace of red (adult males have red atop their heads, and red throats while adult females have only the red crowns).

    I came inside, picked up the Sibley guide and there read that young yellow-bellieds retain that juvenile plumage until March. I wouldn't have learned that if I hadn't been goosed by the bug of curiosity. And, I would have pondered over the sound for the rest of my life. Now I know that my self-confidence was not misplaced, and that's a good feeling.

    It happens that just as I was about to come back inside, I heard the distinguishable notes (says I) of a Red-bellied Woodpecker, and saw its silhouette against a distant tree. It flew closer, into the light, and I looked, just because the Red-bellied is a handsome bird. Imagine my surprise when I saw that its head was golden/orange. Had I been in Texas or Oklahoma, I wouldn't have given it a second thought. I would have said to myself, "Golden-fronted Woodpecker." And that's because we all drift into the habit of identifying birds by our expectations and our geographical orientations.

    I remembered a day many years ago when a call came in from Ocean Springs; a Golden-fronted Woodpecker was hanging out in a yard that had once been an orchard. That spiked an invasion of birders before the sun had risen over the yardarm. It was easy to find the bird and it certainly looked like a Golden-fronted Woodpecker.

    We just didn't look far enough, and I didn't learn my lesson until after I called my personal walking field guide, Kenn Kaufman in Arizona, at an absurdly early hour for there. He suggested we look at the rump and tail, and he further suggested that we consider "aberrant" plumage, but he had used a scientific word.

    Aberrant plumage happens with many birds; our "Golden-fronted" was actually a "Red-bellied" with too much yellow pigment. The word Kenn had used is xanthochroism --- a dominance of yellow coloration in the absence of normal amounts of darker pigments. It's a very rare condition in wild birds.

    With that egg-on-face memory dancing around in my head, I took a good look at my yellow-headed Red-bellied Woodpecker, focusing on its rump and tail, noting the black-barred rump patch and the white central tail feathers. How interesting that I have seen xanthochroism only twice, both on the Coast, and both instances involved a Red-bellied Woodpecker!

    And I must again recommend the Sibley guide, which brings to the fore some lessons that I have learned the hard way.

This article was published in March 2002

DEEP DOWN, WE'RE ALL BIRD LOVERS

                                            

Swallow-tailed Kite - Photo Courtesy Sharon Milligan

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".....................the Swallow-tailed Kite is a high-flying winner in the raptor category............................"

Whenever I address a group of people who are not birders, I attempt to get them involved.  I usually toss out the question: “What is your favorite bird?” Now, it doesn’t seem to matter if the group is composed of Midwesterners, or Northerners, or even Southerners. The hands-down winner of this race is always the Northern Cardinal.

Cardinals are a bit scarce in the Northeast and even in the Midwest, and the sight of one against the snow has turned many a disinterested household into one that will do almost anything to keep that cardinal on the premises. I have no quarrel with that; anyone who feeds birds for any reason is, in my book, a better person for noticing what lives around them.

Some of the other birds that get big votes are loons (when I ask which one, the answer is just “loon” accompanied by a puzzled look). People shout out “the hummingbird”, as if there were only one member of this family of more than 300 species.

Woodpeckers also get put into a generic category. American Robins are always in the running and so are Eastern Bluebirds. The Wood Thrush gets an occasional nod, but never, ever, have I heard someone put forth the name of a warbler, not even a generic one, and the same goes for vireos.

When a lady responded with “seagull” and I asked “which one?”she was flabbergasted to learn that there is no such bird as a seagull – not even Johathan Livingston Seagull, but there is a large family of interesting birds called gulls that are more unlike each other than anyone realizes.

Sometimes I’ll get an answer such as White-collared Seedeater or Rose-throated Becard and I will know immediately that there’s a birder in the midst (the seedeater is a Mexican species which occurs in the states only in a restricted area along the Rio Grande River in Texas; the Becard, also of Mexican origin, occurs in the states only in a small corner of southeastern Arizona; one doesn’t stumble across them, one has to go looking).

Usually, before we have gone once around the room, everyone is anxious to talk birds; everyone has a question; everyone has an anecdote (limit 1 minute and 30 seconds each).

My last group numbered about 35 about equally divided between men and women. When I asked if there were backyard birders in the group, half of them raised their hands. To further narrow things down, I asked who actively pursued the sport of birding away from home. There were far fewer hands raised on that one.

As always, I asked who just didn’t give a darn about birds – three guilty parties raised their hands reluctantly. That is usually my cue to invite them to take that nap they missed during an afternoon of Mark Twain or Jefferson Davis. This is all done in good fun, by the way.

But a funny thing happened one night. A gentleman who had proclaimed himself disinterested in birds kept raising his hand to ask questions. He had his hand raised when my two hours were up. He approached me as I was going out the door and asked me to recommend a good field guide. This sort of thing happens all the time.

There are closet birders out there. My dad was one of them, but he would never admit it. He would sit next to my window here and watch the birds, knowing the names of all of them, evincing nothing but practiced disinterest, until one day a full decked-out male Painted Bunting landed on the ground under the feeder. He watched it – a pint-sized bird with a blue head, red breast, and green back – til it left, and later commented that it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. If there had been time enough left in his life, we could have shared the wonders together.

The White-throated Sparrow is my favorite bird. A gentleman in last week’s group also mentioned this sparrow as his favorite. I was astonished. No one ever singles out a sparrow for special appreciation. He said it reminded him of spring and summer where he lived, and that the song was all he needed to make him feel close to the home of his childhood. I felt an immediate kinship to him.

When one declares a “favorite” bird that isn’t as far as it goes. My favorite is certainly not the most beautiful of songbirds. In my opinion. The Cedar Waxwing is. For good looks and gracefulness, the Swallow-tailed Kite is a high-flying winner in the raptor category. Sentimentally, I like Least Terns. I thrill to the sight of  Peregrine Falcon, especially when it is doing what it does so well. And any bird that visits the backyard, for however short a time is, for a moment of my life, Numero Uno.

Everyone carries a bird close to the heart. What is yours?

This article was  first published in March 2002 -

(Editor's note: ( March 2016) Many Swallow-Tailed Kites have been seen this past week along the coast ( - In Gulfport, one group of 9 birds was seen! Keep a look out.)

BLESS THOSE LITTLE "BUTTER-BUTTS"

                                            

Yellow-rumped Warbler

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On the Mississippi Gulf Coast in winter, there is no bird as abundant and widespread as the Yellow-rumped Warbler, Dendroica coronata, yet I am of the opinion that most readers never have seen even one. If they have, it has been bypassed for something a little larger, a little noisier or a little more colorful.

The Yellow-rumped Warbler once was known as the Myrtle Warbler, and in certain birding circles it is known as the “butter-butt”. In winter it is nondescript, but there is no good reason why anyone should not be able to find it and identify it.

The most distinguishing feature of all butter-butts, be they male, female or immature, is the yellow rump patch about the size of a quarter. This patch often is concealed while the bird is at rest, which it seldom is.

Those who are reading this article with a skeptical leer should follow this advice: Open the window, open the back door or the front door. Make sure that the neighbors are beyond earshot. When you are confident that you are alone, begin to make a series of noises known as “pssshing sounds”.

All birders have their own personal psshing techniques. I don’t say that mine is better, but it works for me. I am sitting here at the typewriter about to make some pssshing noises, the exact technique of which I hope to explain as I go.

First, draw in a little air. At the same time, screw up the lower lip as you would if you had just taken a bite out of a sour lemon. You’re looking good! Now place the tip of the tongue tightly up against the forward roof of the mouth, purse your upper lip and begin to expel air by forcing it out of the little opening left in your scrunched-up face. If you are doing this right, you should hear some small noises that sound like escaping steam. You now are the proud possessor of a bona fide “psssh”.

Use it generously – for a minute or two. You should begin to hear a rush of chip notes. These chip notes come from butter-butts who are rushing in to see what all the fuss is about.

Pause a bit between pssshing and watch for movement. Butter-butts are very curious, especially when a human being is making a complete and utter fool of himself.

Before long, if you are doing things right, you could have half a dozen Yellow-rumped Warblers staring at you. Notice that they are different from each other. As a birder of long experience, I believe that no two butter-butts are alike. Don’t let them confuse and bewilder you. Nine out of 10 birds that respond to pssshing are Yellow-rumped Warblers. That 10^th bird could be a chickadee, titmouse, kinglet, wren, cardinal or sparrow.

Notice that some butter-butts have little yellow patches on the sides of their breasts (sometimes in winter the female lacks this field mark). They also have varying degrees of streaking on the breast. They have two whitish wing bars, while tail spots and, at this time of year, have either a brownish or blackish cast to the general plumage.

Before the last butter-butt has left us, it will, if it is a male, develop into a most beautiful bird. Its breast will be rather extensively black, the yellow side patches will brighten and the crown of its head will be bright yellow (sometimes difficult to see) IN ALL plumages it will wear a yellow rump patch.

Before they leave, usually by mid-April, male birds will be singing in the treetops and there’ll be many a merry chase between males and females.

Where does one normally find a butter-butt? Anywhere…. literally. I believe this warbler has an adaptability that is shared by few other birds. Warblers primarily are insectivorous, but the butter-butts of winter live on what is available in seeds and berries when insects are scarce. They will eat suet mixtures, doughnuts, crumbs and sometimes even sunflower seeds.

This catholic taste in food means that the Yellow-rumped Warbler can subsist in almost any habitat here on the Coast, not the least of which is one’s own backyard.

Butter-butts are great flycatchers and do a lot of sallying after insects. They also are gleaners among the leaves. I’ve seen them creeping up tree trunks like the Brown Creeper and moving among pine cones like nuthatches.

They have a strong affinity for the berries of wax myrtles which grow abundantly here. They can make a living nicely in stretches of marsh grass. They may be seen picking around the edges of a paved road. They have been found probing in mudflats, or working the vegetation at water’s edge, dispersed across a farmyard or scrutinizing new lawns.

During their winter stay on the Gulf Coast, Yellow-rumped Warblers display amazing versatility. Learn to recognize them, or better yet, learn the constantly repeated call to identify them at a distance. They are the most abundant bird of our winter… common birds with most uncommon gifts.

This article was published on March 26th, 1983

THIS IS THE MONTH FOR WARBLERS

Prothonotary Warbler

Photo courtesy of Sharon Milligan

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It is almost time for the Prothonotary Warbler --- yellower than yellow, brighter than bright. It visits its luminescent charms upon us in early March. People will be calling; they always do, to inquire about this 5-inch bird whose color is guaranteed to test one's power of description. It is my favorite among warblers. 

    I first wrote about the Prothonotary Warbler 25 years ago (1970s). The article appeared in this newspaper, then a national magazine, and eventually became part of a bird anthology.The first spring migrant that I ever identified was a Prothonotary Warbler. I found him in a roadside ditch. He was a hot citron spark among decaying leaves, a burst of brilliance above still water. 

    I let the world go by while I watched the golden bird turn the odorous ditch into an enchanted place. He was too busy to know or care that I stood above that little universe of his. He threaded his tiny body through a lacework of leaves and inspected the dank recesses of the mudbank. He scrambled up and down, in and out, between the new-green stalks of elephant ears; he disappeared beneath a fallen willow branch and returned to me atop an ancient cypress stump; he probed, scrutinized, as if to him had fallen the task of sleuthing out all that lived and grew or had ever lived and grown in that insignificant place. 

    I returned on several mornings to watch him. He was a magical bird. He made a bird watcher out of me. He made me a lover of swamps and a believer in mystical ditches. He became symbolic of spring, like the lilacs and forsythia of my New England growing-up; like the azaleas and wisteria of March in the South. Eventually he sang for me in that assertive, no-frills series of notes that breathes life into the swamps and river bottoms and insignificant ditches of eastern North America. 

    Each year, when March begins, I wait for him to signal the start of the great northward pilgrimage. No matter that the Louisiana Waterthrush traditionally arrives earlier, or that Northern Parulas are already making hammocks in the Spanish moss. I must wait for the first prothonotary, the torchbearer of spring, and I have great expectations. 

    One year, the first prothonotary was late. I searched the ditches and swamps for a glimpse of his burning yellow plumage, and listened for the ring of his song, but it was March 12 before I found him. 

    He lay lifeless on a dewy woodland floor, smaller in death than he looked in life. His delicate body was still warm, every feather still smoothly in place, as if at any moment life would return, and all would be well. 

    I cupped him in the palms of my hands and realized that he weighed less than a camellia blossom. He was longer, tip of bill to tip of tail, than my ring finger. I knew he was a male by the brightness of his head and breast --- incandescent, even on a fog-filled morning. 

    Perhaps he was a bird of the year --- one who had never really lived at all. Or maybe he had lived beyond his prime; for so small a bird, that prime might have been three or four years of great good luck. 

    He would have spent the first days of his life in an insistent clamor for food --- spiders, insects, and small, plump, green caterpillars --- in a nest of moss tucked discreetly into an old chickadee hole or in a natural cavity in a fallen limb. Between the warmth of that nest and the cool forest floor of the Coast, he would have traveled far. 

    He had survived the ordeal of the fledgling, so he must have been fit. And for a time, at least, favored by nature. By mid-October of the previous year, he had left his summer home behind to join other warblers in the southward migration. 

    Strong wings and favorable weather would have carried him across the Gulf of Mexico, to the Yucatan Peninsula, an incredible over-water journey of more than 500 miles. Perhaps he had gone farther, to the mangroves of Sevillano or the fresh swamps of Cienega in Columbia to spend the winter in habitat akin to that in which he fledged. 

    Sometime during that February, he felt a restless stirring in his heart, so persistent that he moved up from the swamp forest, away from the mangroves, responding to an ancient instinct that beckons all birds back to ancestral breeding grounds. 

    It was preordained that he should attempt a long exhausting flight back to the place of his beginning, where he would battle his rivals, win his mate, and, with inbred solicitude, feed her on the nest and bring insects to the young. Until the cycle was complete. 

    Before that long flight, he ate and grew stronger, building up reserves of energy, enough to sustain him for more than thirty hours of day and night flying. He made it to the shores of Waveland and fell to earth just as safe haven was reached. 

    The hows and whys escaped me, then and now. I scooped a little hollow in the earth, lined it with pine needles and Spanish moss, and laid spring's first prothonotary in its grave. 

This article appeared in the Sun Herald in March, 2001