Round Up The Usual Suspects

Not a rarity around here, but Bittern nothing.

The weekend started with a series of missed appointments: someone from Alachua Audubon was supposed to drop by my place on Friday to pick up stuff for their upcoming silent auction, and there was supposed to be a field trip to La Chua on Saturday morning. But late on Friday, my Audubon contact called to say she was delayed at work; could we meet up at the La Chua trip instead?

This sounded perfect—but on Saturday morning, I woke up to the pounding of rain on the roof. Like an idiot, I got up anyhow, mindful to put on a pair of semi-water-resistant boots instead of my regular hiking shoes, and headed for La Chua. It was still raining when I got there. And it was still raining 20 minutes later, when the trip leader (the only other person who showed up) made the obvious decision to call the thing off.

But my Audubon contact called me an hour later, and I got the stuff to her later that morning. And on Sunday morning, I made my way back to La Chua, alone.

I had really been looking forward to the field trip because the leader was a crackerjack birder, the kind of guy who can instantly ID a sparrow or warbler from a single distant call note—so I knew I'd see a lot more with his guidance than I would alone. And I suspect I was right: My goal for Sunday was to scare up some good wintering sparrows. But I heard and saw nothing but Savannahs and a few Eastern Towhees. The prairie was weirdly quiet, devoid of both bird song and people.

But as a consolation prize for a morning of mediocre birding, the common year-round residents were unusually bold and cooperative. Great Blue Herons seemed to cross my path on the trail every few minutes, some standing only feet away. One of them calmly strolled past me, ambled into a nearby swampy area, and helped himself to some breakfast:

Further down the trail, I was startled to see a Red-shouldered Hawk perched quietly on a snag just off the trail. The bird didn't seem at all perturbed when I stopped to look at him:

Bald Eagles and Northern Harriers swooped by regularly, and I saw a couple of American Kestrels, a bird I don't recall seeing before at that spot. From the observation deck at the end of the trail I could see the wintering Sandhill Cranes in the distance. The water was filled with American Coots, Common Moorhens, and most likely, several species of wintering ducks. But from where I was, the distant water birds were impossible to ID; without a scope, this was as close as I could get:

Some of the most interesting drama was on the platform itself. For the past few weeks, I've been overhearing visitors scratching their heads over the possible back story behind this:

Cooperative birds and an interesting mystery; there are worse ways to spend a quiet Sunday morning.

Stranger Than Fiction

Truth is Bittern fiction.

I'd never been to the Deep South before moving to Gainesville, and I wasn't sure what to expect. But I had some ideas, many of which were pretty close to the truth: Moss hanging from trees in a sinister manner? Check. People calling me "ma'am"? Check. Iced tea sweet enough to send hummingbirds into a diabetic coma? Yup. Locals spinning improbable but true yarns worthy of William Faulkner and Tennessee Williams. God yes...

Like the story a birder told me one day about a relative of hers who had survived the storming of Normandy: He was invited back to Normandy as an honored guest to commemorate the 50th anniversary of D-Day—and upon seeing that beach again, had a long-delayed flashback, suffered a heart attack, and died on the spot. On the beach at Normandy. On D-Day.

And the story of what I hope was Gainesville's one and only serial killer: he targeted young woman, and one local student was so frightened, she had a burly male friend move in with her for protection. A few days later, the killer found and dispatched them both, ceremoniously placing the girl's head on the TV in the living room for the benefit of whoever found them.

I heard this story while standing by the girl's grave during the fall migration count.

Now here's my story: like the others, too weird to be true—and also, too strange for anyone to make up.

It happened at the Alachua Audubon field trip yesterday. We were having a productive morning: we had two very bold American Bitterns only feet away, both Glossy AND White-faced Ibises, and thousands of Sandhill Cranes. There were lots of good passerines, too: we were treated to sightings of Blue-headed and White-eyed Vireos, a Black-and While Warbler, a pair of Loggerheaded Shrikes, and flocks of Chipping and White-crowned Sparrows.

At one point on the trail, our leader pointed out an area where he had recently encountered a pair of out-of-town birders playing a recording of an unfamiliar bird, and asked them what they were looking for.

Oh, they told him, we're looking for a Harris' Sparrow.

Did you hear of one around here? he asked, his curiosity piqued. He explained to us that the last known sighting of one in Alachua County was in 1973.

No, they said. But we drove all the way up to Louisiana to find some, and didn't see any. So we thought we'd stop by here on the way home to see if we got lucky.

We all got a good laugh out of this. Hey, why not play an Ivory-billed Woodpecker call and see what we could scare up? Ha ha.

We continued down the trail, and stopped to check out a flock of feeding White-crowned Sparrows just off the trail.

"Hey, what's that?" one of the birders asked.
"What?"
"The one the left."
"Which one?"
"The big one. With the black throat."

Our trip leader trained his bins on it, as did the rest of us. It was bigger than the White-crowned Sparrows in the group. It had a black throat and buff cheeks...

"OH...MY...GOD!" he gasped. "IT'S A HARRIS' SPARROW!"

Stunned, we stood frozen in place as it twitched for several seconds, then dove into the brush. None of us with cameras had a chance to capture it.

You really can't make this stuff up. Strange things just happen here, just like that.

Only Two Birds

He's back, and Bittern ever!


On some days, a good birding day feels like a shopping spree—I sprint through the day checking off as many new sightings as I can, and go home giddy with pride in my new acquisitions.

Saturday was not one of those days. We ended up spending the day focused on only two birds—but still had an awesome time.

We started our day at Tewinkle Park, where Glenn hoped to refind and photograph the Brown Creeper and Red-breasted Nuthatch that Bettina Eastman had shown us the week before. After a few minutes, we hadn't seen or heard either bird, but we did see a photographer who told us he had just been shooting at San Joaquin marsh, where a very bold and visible American Bittern was hanging out. Glenn had been wanting forever to get a good Bittern shot, so we hit the road and headed to San Joaquin.

The American Bittern was, as promised, in the reeds only a few yards from the shore of Pond D. And it was easy to find, as there was a phalanx of guys with big lenses parked directly across from it—the bird clearly didn't seem to mind.

The Bittern was great fun to watch (at least when he wasn't completely obscured by the reeds). I loved how he stalked his prey with his long neck completely extended, parallel to the ground like the barrel of a sniper's rifle. I loved how the stripes on his neck looked like some bold design statement when he was out in the open, yet made him nearly invisible when framed by the reeds. And I loved how he liked to stand with his neck and bill stuck snobbily into the air—clearly, he thinks he's Bittern us! Ha ha.

Glenn and Bettina both guessed it was the same bird who had been seen in the pond several times over the summer: perhaps he had managed to stay relatively hidden all along, until the recent rise in water level forced him out.

The second bird we got to obsess over was the exotic/escapee Taveta Golden Weaver hanging out in the parking lot, near the bird cages. Again, we spent about two hours photographing and watching it, and explaining to passersby that it wasn't (a) a parakeet or (b) a messed-up Western Tanager.



As the sun started to set, we returned to the pond so Glenn could get some sunset shots of the Bittern and some of the other birds. A female Hooded Merganser was there, diving in and out of the floating leaves and reeds, and a couple of White-faced Ibises were lurking about as well. It was a perfect ending to a mellow day with a couple of good birds.