My Birding World

It’s been a warm August with a severe lack of serious birding adventures. But I was in luck – a cool day was expected at Point Reyes Bear Valley Visitor Center! Skeptical of the weather forecast (it’s often cool along the coast, but not so much at the visitor center), we grabbed lunch and headed out. I kept on eyeing the car’s thermometer. It held steady in the upper 60s. Perfect.

We gathered at a quiet picnic bench and watched a Black Phoebe occasionally dart after a flying creature. A California Quail awkwardly stationed itself on a spindly bush that threatened to dip under the weight. Acorn Woodpeckers were laughing all around.

For the first time in probably months, we walked the Bear Valley Trail and enjoyed the cool weather under the canopy of trees. Every once in a while, a flurry of bird activity could be spotted from above. Straining our necks, we found plenty of acrobatic Chestnut-backed Chickadees, a couple of Brown Creepers shuffling up thin branches, and a few splashes of bright yellow of the Wilson’s Warblers. But the highlight was the Townsend’s Warblers. Our colorful winter visitors have arrived!

For years, our nemesis bird had been the Pileated Woodpecker. We searched and searched and searched all the way from Lake Tahoe to the coast and could never confidently ID their flicker-like call. But we were finally able to add them to our life list last year after we saw two fly overhead while calling on the same trail we were now hiking. Since then, we’ve occasionally heard their loud wok-wok-wok call at Point Reyes. Today, I heard one call but but my husband didn’t catch it. After straining our ears during the nearly two mile walk back to the car, he sadly admitted defeat in hearing the woodpecker this time. But just as he lost hope, we heard two calls, and one popped out of the trees briefly allowing us our second lifetime glance at this gorgeous creature. We lucked out after all!

I monitored the car’s external thermometer on this chilly morning as we drove towards Redwood Regional Park. It started off in the mid-40s, but the temperature crept lower and lower the further we ventured into the silent forest of redwood trees. Just before parking and turning off the wondrous heat, I noted the temperature at 32 degrees. Realizing that this California girl did not properly dress for such chilly weather, I bravely stepped out of the car to greet members of the Ohlone Audubon Society. This would be my first bird walk with this group.

The grassy meadow was white with frost. Leaves were lined with intricate geometric ice patterns. My right big toe was numb despite my double-layered socks, and I battled for the return of blood circulation for the next two hours. No amount of forcibly wiggling my toe or dancing around would return the feeling back to my frozen appendage.

Despite the chill, the birds were abundant. Dozens of American Robins canvased a field actively working the ground for goodies. Occasionally, the movements from our group set the robins off flying only to return moments later to continue their buffet. Pacific Wrens chirped loudly announcing their location followed by a bubbly song that mesmerized me. We strained our necks looking at Golden-crowned Kinglets dancing at the tops of the massive redwoods. A Red-breasted Sapsucker drilled away on a single limb for seemingly over an hour.

Birds are masters at adapting to cold weather. Either they migrate towards warmer climates, or they deploy a number of strategies to keep warm. Fluffing up their feathers and morphing into a puffball allows air to be trapped between the wispy barbs of down feathers, keeping a bird warm. It’s like slipping under a comforter and warming up using your body heat. Birds may sometimes cuddle together to share warmth as another strategy. They also have biological methods of enduring the cold winter nights that puts them into torpor, a sort of lite-hibernation. The birds today were happy to be dining in the chill as I happily watched under layers of clothing and only nine toes with feeling for the rest of the trip.

Flamingo! Wait, what? In the Bay Area?

Today I birded Coyote Hills Regional Park and Pacific Commons Linear Park. This was my first trip down to Fremont this year.

One of the oddest birds I saw today was a flamingo. It was far away, but you couldn’t miss the bright pink glowing in a sea of black silhouetted waterfowl. The first time I spotted this flamingo was in 2016. It’s an escapee and has been living here in the Bay Area. It’s quite a sight to see – but you will need binoculars!

Pacific Commons Linear Park was hopping with birds. We’ve had several days of rain and it seemed like all the birds were rushing out to grab some grub before the next rain. I find that birding right before and after storms often yields a lot of bird activity.

My favorite moment was when a beautiful Barn Owl flew in front of us and landed in a nearby tree. I carefully, quietly, and quickly snapped a couple pictures and left it alone so as not to disturb it or draw attention to it. I haven’t seen a Barn Owl in over a year, so it was quite a treat.

Yesterday, I visited Briones Regional Park, which is located in the East Bay. It was the middle of the week and there was a striking absence of park visitors at the Bear Creek Staging Area. When I stepped out of the car, I was greeted with a cool, crisp breeze. A chorus of bird calls and chip notes sprang from the ground. Dark-eyed juncos, white-crowned sparrows, and golden-crowned sparrows ignored my presence as they focused their attention on finding sustenance.

Golden-crowned Sparrow, 2018

The hike up Abrigo Valley Trail was unusually quiet. I hardly spotted or heard any birds except for three red-tailed hawks that were ever-present during the two-hour hike. Up, up, up I walked along the dirt trail until I reached a picnic area. I had visited this spot over the summer and found the rare indigo bunting which made itself at home amongst the luscious purple-flowered thistles that took over the landscape. The bunting was long gone, but white- and golden-crowned sparrows (which I affectionately call “crown sparrows”), lesser goldfinches, and western bluebirds danced atop the crisp, dried thistle remains. When I closed my eyes, I could hear the thistle rattle against the breeze.

Dark-eyed Junco, 2018

The walk back yielded more birds – odd as it was the noon hour and general wisdom suggests that birds are more active at dusk and dawn. Fall birding is not as musical as spring birding when birds are singing for mates and announcing their territories. Instead, I had to rely on picking out slight movements in the trees, which is a difficult task when the leaves are blowing in the wind. But the patience is worth it. I saw an oak titmouse grab something fat and green and repeatedly smack it against a branch. A female Townsend’s warbler flew into my view while I watched the titmouse. I caught a bigger movement out of the corner of my eye and out popped a Nuttall’s woodpecker with crisp white lines down her back. I accidentally scattered a dozen or so dark-eyed juncos that were expertly camouflaged on the ground, flicking their diagnostic white-lined tail feathers in retreat.

It was a joy to spend time watching the day-to-day activity of our local birds and be present in nature.