South Shore Journal

Caught in the Storm

On the radar map, it looked like a thin line that would pass us by quickly. But when the rain started to come down in earnest, we knew that we had made the right decision.

We could have gotten out and walked. We could have gone to the wide open grasslands of the Daniel Webster Wildlife Sanctuary, or perhaps the Cumberland Farm Fields. But we thought better of it. Windshield birding would be more effective today. Not to mention more sane.

From time to time we decided it might be worth it to step outside.

It was then we found out we weren't alone in our mad pursuit of our outdoor interests.

In the long run, it was worth it. A barrier beach in winter - and that's almost what it felt like today, both meteorologically and ornithologically - is a different universe, a world populated by wildlife most people never see. Offshore, northern gannets dove in torpedo-like fashion; flocks of snow buntings moved throughout the dune plants in search of food; shorebirds that will linger throughout the winter took up their normal positions along the bayshore.

By the time we ended our run, actually at Marshfield's Rexhame Beach, the sun had come out and fought off the rest of the storm. We were wet, but we were outdoors in sixty degree weather on November 20. Who could complain about that?

An Odd Fall

Perhaps it has to do with the strange weather patterns this year, or perhaps it's simply all tied to recent individual storms. Earlier this year we had some oddities fly in - an ivory gull came in from the north to Plymouth Harbor, a white-winged dove from the southwest found Manomet, an Allen's hummingbird is still at a feeder in Scituate. None of these birds were anywhere near their home territories.

This week, it happened again. Thanks to Paul Kinnaly, we have this photograph of a western kingbird that has been hanging around the Daniel Webster Wildlife Sanctuary in Marshfield. Again, this is a bird that should be somewhere well west of here, beyond the Mississippi. Yet here it is. Blown in by a storm? Perhaps. In fact, it's only one of many that have found their way to the East Coast this year. Our group saw one on Block Island in early October. We had no idea there'd be another one less than a month later.

Other than that, it's been our typical New England fall. While the temperatures have remained pretty warm - which has made it quite nice for us walkers - the leaves have still changed color right on time. Birds aren't at feeders like they usually are, thanks to all the rain we had in the earlier part of the year, but it's still autumn in New England.

And had those average temperatures fallen this fall, what would this weekend's nor'easter have been like? 

Hold the Phone

I spoke too soon. There's more to this story than we all originally thought.

Last Friday I told the story of the rufous hummingbird we banded in Marshfield two years ago, and the mysterious hummer that appeared at a feeder in Scituate last week. By field identification, we all called it another rufous hummingbird.

Such a sighting is exciting enough. A hummingbird in Massachusetts in mid- to late fall is enough of an oddity, and probably an indicator that it's a species that's not supposed to be here. Rufous hummingbirds aren't supposed to move farther east than western Texas, although they are increasingly being found in the southeast in the winter.

But here's the catch. There's another species, an Allen's hummingbird, that is far more southern, and even more western. And it looks a lot like the rufous hummingbird. Between greens and rusty oranges, there is a lot of gray area, so to speak. The only was to truly tell the difference is to get a bird in the hand, literally.

Enter Sue, the same bander who took care of the rufous in Marshfield two years ago. She constructed her trap in the yard in Scituate today and caught the bird. Then the sweating began. She measured the lengths and widths of feathers, looked for specific marks. Particularly, she looked at the R2 tail feather for what's known as emargination. It had none. That fact, and the ranges into which all other measurements fell stated that this was a full adult female Allen's hummingbird.

More examination is being done at this time, as more experts are being called in from around the country. So consider this an interim report until the final word comes down. But this may be only the second time in history that an Allen's hummingbird has been positively identified in Massachusetts.

Rufy

Two years ago at about this time we received a call from a family in Marshfield. "We still have a hummingbird at our feeder," they said. They were right to alert us. "Our" hummingbirds, the ruby-throated hummingbirds, migrated long ago. What they had was a rufous hummingbird, a citizen of the far west that breeds from southern Alaska to the northern California border and never really reaches farther east than West Texas. Unlike Bugs Bunny, this bird took a wrong turn long before it reached Albuquerque. He's shown above.

When we got the call this Friday from a family in Scituate, we knew what to expect. Once again, an extralimital species had found its way to the South Shore, another rufous hummingbird that for some reason or another had strayed a couple of thousand miles off course to find a feeder in a backyard in the coastal town. Unlike our last one, though, a young male, this one appeared to be a female.

Respecting the wishes of the owners, we contacted only immediate staff members of Mass Audubon, who one-by-one made their way to the home. The homeowners, members of the organization, led us directly to the top floor of the house for a commanding view of the garden below. We waited momentarily, and soon enough, the tiny creature made its appearance. It favored a birch tree for insect hunting and occasionally popped onto the feeder. I got lucky and was standing near enough to take a phot or two just before I left.

Sure, it's getting cold, but that doesn't mean there aren't surprises still out there. Keep your eyes and ears peeled for the unusual, for you never know what you might find.

A Star is Discovered

I've been out sick for about two weeks. In the interim, I've spent a lot of time sleeping, reading, dozing on the edge of consciousness, doing anything but being a naturalist. Today I returned to work and nature put me right to the test.

As I was wading through more than 600 emails, the phone rang.

"Well, I finally got the monkey off my back!" It was David, our property manager.

I ran through the checklist in my mind of David's nemesis critters, those animals for which he's been searching for twenty years or more: fisher, pinyon jay, star-nosed mole...

I finally just asked. "Which monkey would this be?"

"The star-nosed mole monkey!"

"There's a star-nosed mole monkey???"

"No, just get down here!"

I hadn't been to the Daniel Webster Wildlife Sanctuary for weeks. Heck, when I walked up to the North River Wildlife Sanctuary today, there was a solar panel array going up in the yard. Things change when you play Rip Van Winkle for days on end.

While doing some work on the Daniel Webster sanctuary's wet panne with an excavator, David was surprised to see a little black creature sliding down a mountain of dirt he'd been turning over. He scrambled out of the cab and grabbed it, which was no mean feat. As David said, "They move through dirt like we walk through air."

And there it was. David had no other container than his lunch box, so he scared up a few earthworms and dropped them into the makeshift exhibit and watched as the mole scurried from corner to corner slurping them down. By the time I got there it's appetite had been tempered, and I only saw one worm go for the final slippery ride.

Star-nosed moles are front-loaded little creatures, with powerful front claws used to dig through the earth, and 22 appendages - the "star-nose" - that hold as many as 25,000 receptors known as Eimer's organs that help them quickly identify, in less than 10 milliseconds, whether or not a found item is edible.

We took a few photos and then returned it, out of the way of the excavator, to its natural habitat. And with that, our brief glimpse into the life of the star-nosed mole was gone.

One day back at work, and I've already had a life sighting of a creature I may never see again. And David's carrying around one fewer monkeys. I love this job.

To the Block and Back

We knew going in that it would be tough. The weather forecast was less than perfect; in point of fact, it was intimidating. We all packed our rain gear and planned for the worst. For once, a plan came to fruition.

But that's not to say that we didn't have our moments on Block Island this past weekend. There was that stop just as soon as we got on the island out by Spring House, the one where the dickcissel was feeding with the clay-colored sparrows and the palm warblers. That wasn't bad.

And then there was the visit to Southeast Lighthouse, which is always a hoot. Block sits south of Point Judith and east of Montauk, and any boat passing around that corner of the island - to enter the Old Harbor or bypass it on the way to either New York City or a rounding of Cape Cod - needed this old hunk of bricks to make a safe passage.

Speaking of hunks of bricks, one of our tour-goers couldn't resist a walk on the dark side.

Saturday was when the downfall really began, literally and figuratively. We headed for the north end of the island to try to catch migrating warblers in a confused and exhausted state, but instead got rain, rain and more rain, leaving us in a confused and exhausted state. We got a breather out on Champlin Road, where the eastern towhees and the sparrows play, but it just kept coming. A brief respite brought us a big surprise, a Philadelphia vireo.

That night, we did some owling. I found us a saw-whet and a barn, by pure luck and through the help of a book written by one of the locals, respectively. The following morning, with a wet world still enshrouding us, we ventured out. The birds started early and never stopped: Blackburnian, bay-breasted, Nashville, pine, black-throated green, yellow, yellow-rumped, and more.

Time began to wind down as we visited last-ditch stops: the Turnip Farm, Andy's Way, and more. The birds, beaten down by the rain, were springing back to enthusiastic feeding: American oystercatchers, merlins, peregrine falcons, and in one last surprise, just as I hung up the phone after an appearance on Ray Brown's Talkin' Birds on WATD 95.9 FM, a western kingbird!

We ended up with 72 species of birds, kind of a low number, but what birds they were. We boarded the ferry and slunk home in the late day sunshine on Sunday, stopping by the roadside to wring out our clothes.

Fondest Farm Day Memories

Twenty-five years have now passed since the "i's" were dotted and "t's" crossed on the papers that transferred the ownership of the Dwyer Farm to Mass Audubon for the creation of the Daniel Webster Wildlife Sanctuary. That's a quarter century of stewardship, and it's a damn good start.

Annually, we celebrate the old farm's heritage through what began as a fundraiser to buy the land in the first place. Farm Day was once "Save Dwyer Farm Day," but since its been saved, the first two words have been dropped. And it is the one day a year when what the South Shore Sanctuaries staff still calls "the farm" is a farm again.

Farm Day is toddler heaven, a place where young families congregate in fantastic numbers. This year, with the weather's sweet cooperation, a record crowd turned out. And it seemed like they all wanted to have their faces painted.

Hay rides tumbled through the grasslands in that soft way that only tractors can, with engines that are a lot less louder than they seem they should be. Three separate tractors tugged wagons. At least one young boy rode three times so that he could be pulled by each one.

When they tired of the hay rides, they entered the hay mazes. Despite our best attempts at maze design, the kids are always just a little smarter than us. They always get out. We haven't lost one yet, and that's a good thing.

In the craft tent, youngsters made take-home farm critters and rain sticks out of basic household goods, thanks to an intrepid and tireless team of volunteers. Around the corner, the pumpkin pit became the gathering spot for the day.

Families traveled the sanctuary from the blinds overlooking the wet panne to the cotton candy machines near the maintenance barns to collect all the stamps needed to finish the Farm Day Scramble Quest.

John Hornstra and family brought the chocolate milk, and Johnny Carlevale and His Band of Allstars brought the swing.

Soups donated by the best restaurants in Marshfield were sipped in the shadow of the actively demonstrating woodturners of the South Shore. Family Crest catering fed the thousands who wandered through the craft and games areas.

The staff at our sibling sanctuary, the Blue Hills Trailside Museum, produced real wildlife for display, a barn owl stealing the show.

When the final bell rang and the mosquitoes started to rise, the parking lot slowly emptied, leaving the staff and a beloved team of volunteers behind to take it all down. By sundown, Daniel Webster Wildlife Sanctuary was a sanctuary again.

Birding and Baseball 2009

Eight people wandered down to Baltimore, from Ipswich and Scituate and Weymouth and Marshfield and Cambridge and even New Hampshire. They had a van, a handful of maps and tickets to two Red Sox-Orioles games. And they set themselves some goals. Sighting a Baltimore oriole in Baltimore would be nice, they thought.

Upon landing, they headed for Lake Roland and Robert E. Lee Memorial Park, north of the city. There they found black-crowned night-herons, Carolina chickadees, orange mycena mushrooms and a body of water that once covered all of the city's drinking and bathing needs. From there, they headed for Cromwell Valley Park, rolling grasslands, and a whole lot of quiet. No orioles were to be found.

The next morning promised great adventures, though, as the group rolled eastward toward the Delaware shore. Bombay Hook National Wildlife Refuge beckoned, but its call was interrupted shortly after they crossed the Bay Bridge and hit the Eastern Shore. There, in a tiny crossroads town, stood a statue of a ball player, and not just any ball player. Nope, it was Jimmy Foxx, a one-time MVP for the Boston Red Sox. They'd found Sudlersville, the hometown of "The Beast."

To the east they continued. Around every turn, another great sighting lurked. Snowy egrets mounted the trees. An American snout butterfly stood still even as they reached out to touch it. A flurry of female and young blue grosbeaks fed low in the brush. But still, no orioles.

That night, they headed to Oriole Park at Camden Yards to watch the Red Sox defeat the O's, 3-1.

Once again, they awoke with the sun, confident of their chances of finding their nemesis bird. They drove eastward, past the unfortunate section of the city known as Dundalk, where a water main break had wreaked havoc with the community. They ended their run at North Point State Park, the site of an early twentieth century amusement park, now a nature sanctuary. Warblers and hummingbirds intercepted them on the paths and Caspian terns dove in the bay, but still no orioles. A gray fox watched them from a field.

At Patuxent National Wildlife Refuge they found a brown thrasher, wood ducks and even more warblers, but baseball called again.

The rest of the day was spent at the stadium and in the surrounding area. A private tour of the ballpark that changed baseball coincided with early batting practice for Sox second baseman Dustin Pedroia (Scott told him that he was dropping his back shoulder when he swung). A quick dinner was followed by game two, and an 11-5 Sox victory.

For a moment, Tony thought he saw an oriole, but it turned out to be a 700-pound weathervane atop the scoreboard. Time was winding down.

Finally, on day four, the group headed for a hidden gem, an urban oasis sure to attract birds throughout the year. The Cylburn Arboretum produced red-eyed vireos, a chestnut-sided warbler and a flyover of a dozen broad-winged hawks, but no orioles.

No worries, they said. Ninety other bird species had made their appearances, and the Red Sox were on their way to a sweep. They'd visited the birthplace of Babe Ruth, sampled the famous Chesapeake Bay crabs and otherwise enjoyed the hell out of their weekend. Besides, they said, spring migration was only seven months away. The orioles would be back.

Is it Over Already?

If nature has told us one thing over the past few weeks, it's that it's not waiting for anybody or anything. Whether or not we feel cheated by the rain and fog, the loss of our summer, none of that matters. Summer will leave when it's supposed to, and fall will arrive.

Shorebirds have been on the move since the beginning of July, and now the swallows have joined them. Tree swallows, in particular, are gathering in large numbers along the barrier beaches and other stretches of sand - the Spit in Scituate, Duxbury Beach and Plymouth Beach being good examples - staging for the long journey south to Florida and beyond. They've been joined by smaller numbers of bank and barn swallows. Oddities have been popping up here and there: Bonaparte's gulls, common loons, northern harriers. They're all signs that fall is nearing.

The piping plovers had a disastrous year, thanks to the weather, especially the June nor'easter. Twenty-one nesting attempts on Duxbury Beach yielded a total of four chicks. Couple that with the inability of other shorebirds to nest on the tundra due to a recalcitrant ice pack that refused to move back in time, and one can see that a significant portion of "our" species did not have a good breeding season in 2009.

But we continue to enjoy the outdoors, despite these circumstances. Friday Morning Birders is still on the road each week. This past Sunday we ran "Pilgrims, Plovers and Pancakes," sharing a wonderful breakfast at the Major John Bradford House in Kingston before birding along the coast. Camp has closed for the summer, but Farm Day is just about a month away.

Who knows what we'll see between now and then.

Downeast Ramblings

It's that time of year again, when Mass Audubon heads for Machias, Lubec, Cutler, and the rest of the coastal towns of Washington County. It's our annual chance to see one of the northeast's greatest nature success stories, nesting puffins, and so much more.

We - the South Shore Sanctuaries and the Ipswich RIver Wildlife Sanctuary - started in the Deblois Blueberry Barrens, searching, fruitlessly, for upland sandpipers. We found, instead, vesper and savannah sparrows, toad flax and, of course, blueberries.

From there, we rolled into Machias and our first dinner at Helen's, where the blueberry pie has won two national awards in the last five years. We usually miss it the first night and have to special order it for the next few days. We sat outside of our hotel as the sun went down and peered across the Machias River at a bald eagle sitting in a pine tree. Never fails - he's been there for four years in a row for me, at least.

The next morning we were on the road early. We walked Pot Head for warblers and Boot Head Cove for spruce grouse. Worked out the other way around this year, for some reason. The boot of Boot Head is visible at low tide. It's as if someone was standing on the top edge of a boot looking down toward the toe. It's rocky, foggy and salty. It's Maine, alright.

We overlooked Holmes Bay, or as much of it as we could in the heavy fog. Whimbrels fed in the mud. From there, we crossed the Rainbow Bridge, passed the Mulholland Point Lighthouse and lunched at Roosevelt International Park on Campobello Island. We toured the house and grounds, took in the view of FDR's beloved bay overlooking Friar's Head, walked Eagle Hill Bog for pitcher plants and sundews and visited East Quoddy Head Lighthouse.

A piece of pie and a blink of sleep later, we were on the road to Jonesport to board a boat for Machias Seal Island. With rain threatening, and soon following through on that threat, we charged across the choppy sea, chased by shearwaters and fulmars, escorted by harbor porpoises.

Puffins dashed in with herring as thunder rumbled overhead. Common murres argued with each other as razorbills watched. Herring and great black-backed gulls waited on the periphery of the puffin colony for just one slight mistake that might give away the position of a young puffin, known to them as breakfast.

We retreated to shore, grabbing our lunch at Tall Barney's. We walked Great Wass Island, marveling at the wildflowers, the orchids and the out-of-place jackpines. We returned to Machias for one more brief night of sleep.

As Sunday dawned, we were on the road again. There was stil more to see - the Nelson's sharp-tailed sparrows at South Lubec Flats, 8,000 years of history at Carrying Place Cove. We walked a new trail at Quoddy Head State Park, then an old one, to the arctic bog, where, for the fourth year in a row, a Lincoln's sparrow greeted our guests.

From there, it was only 400 miles to home. We stopped at the West Quoddy Head Lighthouse, the easternmost point in the United States, and hit the road.