ABA Blog

The Best Christmas Count

Sunday, December 18, 1977. The week had started out dreadfully cold in the Chicago area. It was -12° during count week, and there was a good amount of snow on the ground. In the days running up to the count, a warm front pushed in, bringing some more snow with it, and temperatures that climbed into the 40s.

I was 14, and this was my second Christmas Count, ever. My friend Alan picked me up in the black hours of early morning, and we made the hour-long drive to the Morton Arboretum without incident ... well, with one incident, actually.

The day before had been well above freezing, but with all that snow still on the ground, it got quite cold at night. As we came down a gentle hill on Route 53 at some unheard-of hour of the morning, Alan's trusty Datsun B210 hatchback decided to do some figure skating. He completely lost control of the car, and we wound up sailing through a red light at a big intersection, backwards. Luckily, even the cops were safely snugged in their beds that early on the Sunday morning before Christmas.

Okay, so except for that, it was a pretty sleepy ride. We did some owling, and then just after dawn, met the rest of the counters at the visitor's center parking lot to get handed our assignments for the day. The Lisle Arboretum Count, started in 1937, is one of the oldest, and some of the people participating have done so for decades. They get the best areas assigned to them. Places with intriguing names like "Hemlock Hill" or "Thornhill"—two spots locally famous for winter finches and other good birds. And December of 1977 was shaping up to be a good finch year.

I got assigned to the far east side, which is almost completely monotonous deciduous forest. My day would be relegated to counting Chickadees, Nuthatches, Blue Jays, and maybe a Brown Creeper. So be it. I was out birding.

The 1,700-acre arboretum has a 9 mile driving loop through the grounds. I was to be dropped off on one side of the loop, where I would make my way cross-country to a parking lot on the other side. I was assured that someone would then pick me up, and take me to my next assignment.

I've mentioned in other posts that I didn't come from a family of means ... so, well, let me take a moment to describe my winter gear that day.

On my feet were heavy cotton duck "snow boots", with 3 pairs of cotton socks inside. Layer one was cotton "waffle-knit" long underwear. My pants were heavy brown corduroy (this was the 70s, after all). Up top I had a heavy polyester sweater, and a reversible "snorkel" parka (navy and blaze orange) ... topped off with a polyester knit cap. The entire ensemble cost $22 at Wieboldt's.

The Chicago area had seen some record cold and heavy snowfall during the week prior, but the morning of the count, temperatures were headed well into the 40s. My route took me through knee-to-waist-high snow, and I think I made 50 yards before I was soaked to the skin. But I was 14. 14-year-olds are indestructible. Unstoppable, even.

Trudge trudge trudge. Stop. Look. Listen. Trudge trudge trudge. Stop. Mark down a chickadee. Trudge trudge trudge.

I had made it to the midway point and was faced with an open area and a hill. I was approaching the hill from the south, and the snow drifts were up to my pubescent chest. I plowed into the first one, determined to go straight up the hill, and I was stopped dead. The snow was so full of water, so heavy, that when I compressed it, it turned into a wall.

I stood thinking for a moment and catching my breath...

...when a bird call that I had never heard before came tinkling out of the heavens. Sweet, soft little notes. I looked up, and out of the blue sky a flock of birds appeared and landed in the trees crowning the hill.

I put my binoculars on them and, even though I had never seen one before, I knew instantly what they were: Pine Grosbeaks!

I counted. 53 of them!!

The trees at the top of the hill were a collection of Ash, and they happily settled in and began stuffing their cute little rosy and gray faces on the millions of dangling seeds.

I knew this was a good bird, but I didn't really know just how good. I continued on my route, and eventually made my way back to the loop road where I found no one waiting for me. So, I began walking back toward the visitor's center. Soon Alan came along and picked me up, and on the short drive to lunch I told him about my birds.

The little cafe at the visitor's center was full of bird-counters, and I was telling everyone there about my 53 Pine Grosbeaks. Some smiled. Some asked where. Some couldn't be bothered with the rantings of a kid who found a flock of Purple Finches (in the 1970s, House Finches would have been even more rare than Pine Grosbeaks).

A couple people decided that it was worth checking on, so after lunch I took them out to show them. We followed the trail I had plowed, and when we got to the hill discovered that the flock had grown to 80 birds.

And pandemonium ensued.

Within an hour or so, everyone had forsaken their assignments and was making it over to "Ash Hill". They needn't have worried. The flock stayed for nearly a month, and remains to this day the largest gathering of Pine Grosbeaks ever recorded in Illinois. It was also the last flock of any size of this species ever recorded in the state. There have been 15 records—28 individual birds—in the 35 years since the winter of 1977.

The countdown dinner was held that evening in a banquet hall (now a landmark) called The Sabre Room. Everyone was there ... and for one night, I was a hero. It was the best Christmas Count, and maybe the best Christmas, ever.

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What's your favorite Christmas count memory? Please share in the comments below!

Location, location, location… what's in a name?

Editor's Note: The ABA Blog welcomes Jeff Bouton as a regular contributor.  Jeff is Marketing Manager for Leica Sports Optics and lives in Port Charlotte, Florida. 

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Note the blurred tail in this early AM shot, caused by the Palm Warbler's incessant and characteristic tail-wagging behavior

I photographed the Palm Warbler above in a palm tree the other day and thought, "Ah, as it should be". 

If only birding were this simple though. For beginning birders this image may not seem odd at all, but those who've been around the block a bit longer realize Palm Warblers are rarely found in palms and, despite the name, one wouldn't really look for them here first. They are only in "palm country" in the winter months and even then, seem to prefer to feed on or near the ground in weedy patches and are much more likely on a low shrub or similar. 

Warblers who feed by gleaning are much more commonly found in palm trees, searching the nooks and crannies for spiders and other morsels. The Yellow-throated Warbler would have been a much more appropriate "Palm Warbler" as they occur year round here in Florida - and other subtropical to tropical locales - and love feeding in palms.

Cape May Warbler... in Florida

Despite being digiscoped in a Coconut Palm, the bird above is NOT a Palm Warbler either. It's a Cape May Warbler and as you may have guessed from the habitat, this individual is a long way from Cape May, NJ. I digiscoped this one in the parking lot of The Florida Keys Hawkwatch in Marathon, FL in October '1).

As an early birder, I expected I'd see my first Cape May Warbler on my first trip to Cape May. Imagine my surprise when I checked the range map and realized this species neither breeds nor winters anywhere near Cape May and is only expected here during the migration months. Oh yeah, and Virginia's Warbler is named for a lady not the states sharing the same name!

Confused?!?... well if not it's only because you've birded long enough to come to the realization that bird names should always be taken with a grain of salt. However, when you stop and reconsider it you can see how these inaccuracies make birding a lot more challenging than it perhaps should be. 

Ring-necked Duck pair digiscoped in Port Aransas, TX, Feb 2007

While not related to geographic anomoly, the Ring-necked Duck has always topped my "poorly-named birds" list!

How about you, anyone want to rant about the WORST bird names in American birding? How about some of the best?

Phenomena

 

Early last week, we had our coldest weather thus far this fall in the Denver metro region. Monday morning, Nov. 12th, was bright and brilliant—and frigid. I stepped outside around sunup, I looked up, I listened, and there they were: Cackling Geese, skein upon skein of them, hurrying south, saying hink and heenk, but not honk, as they went.

All morning long, it continued like that. This was full-on vismig, as the Brits say. Vismig is Britspeak for “visible migration”—birds actually on the move, caught in the act of migrating. These weren’t just birds on stopover, feeding or loafing. These were birds doing something, going somewhere. This was a full-on phenomenon.
(Left: Photo by Bill Schmoker.) 

I love avian phenomena. I love it when I get to see and hear birds doing stuff. The thrill of witnessing natural phenomena is what keeps me going. I’ll be honest with you: I prefer phenomena to rarities. Finding a rarity is, for me, something of an out-of-body experience. The rarity pops into view, a visitor from another dimension, not quite real, more a symbol or cipher than a flesh-and-feathers bird. It gets ticked. In an instant, it is transmogrified. The act of putting a name on a rarity is analogous to the act of detecting a subatomic particle; we see it, and it is altered, forever. The rarity, the actual bird itself, is transformed into a name, a reified name. In the blink of an eye, it is over, it is all over. The bird, the name, has been rendered frozen, lifeless, yet immortal, an entry on a checklist, like an immense probability field of waves and particles suddenly collapsed into a single point in space and time.

Not so with avian phenomena. Avian phenomena keep on going, keep on giving; avian phenomena live on. Indeed, the excitement builds as the phenomenon progresses. With a rarity, however, the whole thing is over, in that instant in which the bird’s name is spoken aloud.

 

Mixed in with all those Cackling Geese were three Ross’s Geese. Ross’s Geese aren’t hugely rare where I live, but they’re uncommon. Ross’s Goose is a nice bird, something to tell your friends about. Somebody might need it for his county list or her year list. As the geese flew over, I checked for the relevant field marks: small size and short neck; short, stubby bill; no grinning patch. It all added up: Ross’s Goose. Check. Tick. The probability cloud had collapsed. It was over.

But the Cacklers kept on going, streaming south, wonderfully alive, the whole morning. As each skein passed, something inside me intensified. This is it! This is for real! This is happening, right here, right now!

The birds were alive, and so was I, that brilliant morning.

 

Avian phenomena can be detected anywhere, anytime. Some phenomena are brief, lasting just a few hours. Others run on for several days. Still others extend throughout an entire season of the year—or even longer. An avian phenomenon, it seems to me, has to involve multiple birds. It has to involve birds doing something. And here’s the key: For some phenomenon X, bird x_n+1 is even more exciting than bird x_n. (Conversely, for some checklist entry Y, bird y₁, i.e., the bird, is infinitely more satisfying than birds y₂, y₃, y₄, etc. In fact: y_n=∅ for all values of n>1.)

Sorry about that. Geek mode off. Here, without further ado, are a dozen way-cool avian phenomena from my home county of Boulder County, Colorado:

12. Cackling Geese.
See above.

11. Ring-billed Gulls.
At some point this coming winter, it will get really, really cold. A lot colder than early last week. The temperature will drop well below zero; the next day, the temperature will struggle to reach the teens. The same thing will happen the next day, and the day after that. As a result, all standing water in the northern metro region will freeze over. Except for one place: The water at Valmont Reservoir, heated by Xcel Energy’s Valmont Station plant, will remain open. And when that happens, all the gulls in the region will come to Valmont. Thousands upon thousands of them.
    We birders gather at the bluff overlooking Valmont Reservoir, and we watch in wonder as the gulls fly in late in the afternoon, a dozen here, a hundred there, scores here, hundreds more there. The gulls settle on the ice shelf, and then an eagle soars by, and they all put up: thousands of them now, in some winters more than ten thousand of them. There are rarities in the immense gathering, but the most thrilling thing is just the sheer number of Ring-billed Gulls. They wheel about in the still sky, a great snow globe of gulls, as Boulder County guller Bill Schmoker has memorably put it.

10. Violet-green Swallows.
Spring is cruel in Colorado. One day it’s sunny and sixty; the next morning, it’s snowing. That’s not a big deal if you’re a seed-crunching grosbeak, a berry-plucking solitaire, or a fish-devouring merganser. But what if you’re an obligate insectivore, a Violet-green Swallow, say? You still have to eat, so you go where the bugs are: immediately above, and even right on, the surface of large lakes and reservoirs.
    I have seen tremendous swarms of Violet-green Swallows, all together and all at once, in the twenty feet of airspace above the larger reservoirs in Boulder County. I well remember a morning that quickly went from cloudy to misty to snowy. Mere minutes ahead of the squall, the Violet-greens arrived, more than a thousand of them. For the whole time I was there, they fed frenetically, constantly dipping down onto the water’s surface to glean bugs.
    I came back a few hours later, after the sun had come out. There wasn’t a single Violet-green Swallow in sight. The event, the phenomenon, was over, as fleeting as when the morning fog burns off without anybody even noticing.

9. Clay-colored Sparrows.
I’d never heard the term until I moved here: upslope system. Basically, it’s cold, wet weather out of the east, backing up into the foothills. If there’s an upslope system in May, you don’t go to school; you don’t go to work; you don’t do the dishes or feed the kids. You go birding.
(Left: Photo by Bill Schmoker.)
    For me, the Clay-colored Sparrow, more than any other species, is the heart and soul of an upslope fallout. On most days in May in Boulder County, your chances of seeing a Clay-colored are about one in ten. During upslope fallouts, however, they’re everywhere. A few years ago, I walked outside the house during an upslope system, and heard Clay-colored Sparrows all over the place. By the time I had walked to the end of the street, I had seen at least twenty. Five hundred feet later, the tally was up to eighty-five.
    You don’t plan for an upslope fallout. It just happens. And when it does, you revel in the smart-looking, buzzy-voiced Clay-colored Sparrows, ordinarily uncommon, but so common during upslope systems that you practically have to kick them out of the way.

8. Chipping Sparrows.
I’ve blogged about this earlier, so I’ll be brief. By early July, just a couple of weeks past the summer solstice, Chipping Sparrows are migrating by night to their recently discovered molting grounds in eastern Colorado and western Kansas. It is thrilling to go out on hot nights in July and hear the sparrows’ tiny voices calling out in the darkness. My favorite venue is Greenlee Preserve, the postage-stamp preserve down the street from my house. No matter how often I witness the phenomenon, I still find myself saying, “Wow. Chipping Sparrows migrating over by night in the middle of the summer? Who knew!”

7. American Tree Sparrows.
Birders mark the passing of time by FOS’s—first-of-season sightings. It occurs to me that the last FOS each year in Boulder County is the American Tree Sparrow. They’re here at the beginning of the year, so there is no spring-migration FOS occurrence for them. Thus, the FOS tree sparrow isn’t until the autumn. The first sightings for me aren’t until well into October, maybe not even until early November—after I’ve scored all other FOS’s for the year.
    American Tree Sparrows, like Chipping Sparrows, migrate by night, audibly so. I remember a chilly, misty November night seven years ago. A handful of us were gathered on the north shore of Boulder Reservoir, and we were enthralled by the calls of tree sparrows migrating over in the dark. On their final approach to the big, flat, shimmering surface of the lake, the birds became confused or concerned, and calling intensity increased. We couldn’t see the birds, of course; we could barely see our nearest surroundings, what with the thickening fog. The conditions intensified the experience of being there, the pure experience of being immersed in pure phenomenon.

6. Cassin’s Sparrows.
I’m on a sparrow kick, eh? At least, this one isn’t a Spizella, like the previous three entries. Anyhow. A scant four years ago, the Cassin’s Sparrow would have been a full-on mega in Boulder County. Then, in the summer of 2009, a biological survey turned up a few at the base of the foothills. A few days later, I found a little colony of singing males a few miles to the north. In 2010, county birders found more of them. Then in 2011, they were everywhere. Boulder County super-birder Christian Nunes discovered more than thirty of them, including breeders, that summer. But this past summer, there were just a handful—despite an awful lot of searching.
    What’s the deal? Was this just a one-shot incursion, starting in 2009, building in 2010, peaking sharply in 2011, then just as quickly extinguishing in 2012? What will happen in 2013? Will numbers recover to 2010 or maybe even 2011 levels? Or will we back to the old days? I have no idea. Time will tell. That’s the great thing about phenomena. They keep you guessing.

5. Black-chinned Hummingbirds.
Check the Colorado Breeding Bird Atlas, and you will see that there are no records—none at all—of Black-chinned Hummingbirds in eastern Colorado in the Platte River drainage. Black-chins in eastern Colorado, everyone knew a scant few years ago, were birds of the hot, arid Arkansas River drainage. Then something happened. A switch went off. Black-chins suddenly started showing up northeastern Colorado in the summer months.
(Right: Photo by Bill Schmoker.)
    Almost immediately, they were found to be nesting. The first Black-chinned Hummingbird I ever saw in Boulder County—in the summer of 2008—was at a nest. Other birders have reported the same thing. In a hummingbird heartbeat, the species has gone from not-on-my-county-list to oh-there’s-another-nest.
    Cassin’s Sparrows are notorious for population fluctuations. As I said, I have no idea if they’ll be back in 2013. But I’m counting on ever more Black-chinned Hummingbirds. They seem to be well established and increasing. Which raises the obvious question: Why? What flipped that switch?

4. Broad-tailed Hummingbirds.
Birders love the phenomenon of sheer plenitude, of great throngs of gulls or shearwaters. Even a big flock of blackbirds or starlings, you have to admit, is pretty impressive. How about hummingbirds?
    I’m serious. The flock—there is no other word—of Broad-tailed Hummingbirds at Boulder County’s Fawn Brook Inn is awesome. You hear them well before the car eases into the lot across the street. As you walk toward the flowers and feeders, the birds are buzzing all about you. And when you’re actually on the premises, there are so many that you get disoriented. I mean it. You can get vertigo there. I’ve never gone scuba diving and been surrounded by thousands of hyperactive and beautiful little fish, but I think it must be something like the hummingbirds at the Fawn Brook Inn.

3. Redheads.
Quick! Name some great-sounding birds: Winter Wren, Hermit Thrush, Northern Mockingbird. For sure, they’re all great. Here’s another: the Redhead. The Redhead? Come again? Be with honest with me: How many of you knew the Redhead has anything to say at all?
    The call of any particular Redhead isn’t all that impressive. What’s cool, what’s very cool, is when hundreds of males all get together, and all start hooting and whistling. There is something wonderfully forlorn, poignant, and capital-R Romantic about their wailing. I swear, they do it only on cold, raw, still days in early spring. They sound anguished. The effect is overwhelming.
    If you’ve never heard the chorusing of male Redheads, go out and listen next spring. Just be sure to bring a hanky.

2. American Robins.
If you wan to be a better birder, a better observer of nature—heck, just a better human being—then go out and watch robins. Robins are always doing stuff. A single robin is fascinating to observe, but I go for the big flocks. With a flock of robins, there’s never a dull millisecond. Listen to this recording, which I realize a few of you may recall from an earlier post by Yours Truly:

Robins are exciting!

I feel that way every time I see a flock of robins. Robins are, in word, phenomenal.

 

1. Sandhill Cranes.
Each year, there is an avian phenomenon that is, without a doubt, the birding event of the year for folks in Boulder County and everywhere else in the Front Range metro corridor. That’s an understatement. The phenomenon is avian, but the experience transcends mere birding. I refer to the southbound passage—vismig, recall—of Lesser Sandhill Cranes.
(Left: Photo by Bill Schmoker.)
    I think it’s fair to say that, 99% of the time in Boulder County, you have at best about a 1% chance of seeing or hearing Sandhill Cranes. They’re rare here. Except for when they’re abundant, filling the skies, for an hour or more at a time, with their stentorian bugling. What I love about it is how we have absolutely, utterly no say in how the phenomenon plays out.
    Typically, the phenomenon starts around during the lunch hour on a workaday weekday. By mid-afternoon, COBirds is lighting up with reports. I remember the time somebody texted that she was seeing them while driving in rush-hour traffic on I-25 in Denver. I’m not saying I approve of driving, birding, and texting at the same time, but I get it. We stop what we’re doing (or, in the case of our COBirds corresondent, we don't stop!) to watch the cranes. It’s in our genes. We can’t help ourselves. We run inside to tell our non-birding friends to come outside and see and hear these glorious birds.
    The phenomenon played out according to script—that is to say, without input from me or any other birder—this past autumn. It happened on a busy Friday afternoon, when I really needed to be doing other things. Like the cranes cared about that.
    My favorite experience with cranes was in 2011. That year, they declined to migrate over the Front Range urban corridor. Oh, I’m a sure a few did. But there was no massive overflight involving tens of thousands of cranes, and, oh yes, tens of thousands of admiring humans. I figured I’d missed them for the year. Then something bewitching, and totally unexpected, happened.
    My kids and I and several dozen other humans were sledding on a snowy afternoon. It was a noisy, raucous affair, full of laughter and shouting. And then I heard it: the unmistakable bugling of cranes. They came in closer, and the other sledders started to notice. In a moment, everybody was silent, motionless, just watching as the cranes circled above, getting ready to land. All the raucousness, all the laughter and shouting—it was all muted. We just stood there and watched and listened without saying a word. It was a marvelous, a magical, a transcendental moment.
    If only for a brief minute, we were all birders.

 

Patched

My birding is patched. I have patches in my backyard, patches where I work, and patches where I travel. Patches are large and small, rural and urban, green and not-so-green, wet and dry.

I like patch birding. I can get my arms around a patch. I can slip a patch into my pocket. In my patch I learn every note, every chip, and every flash of color. In a patch, I can know every bird, or I have fooled myself into thinking so. I am king of my patch.

I have a favorite patch in Philadelphia. When in the city I usually stay in the Embassy Suites across from Logan Square (which is now a circle). For the past few years I have worked in Philadelphia with the Philadelphia Parks and Recreation Department (PPRD.) My walk to their offices near Love Park is only a few blocks.

On the way I pass a tiny patch that I have adopted. This patch has a few trees and shrubs, with mulched grounds separated by a few blades of grass. A statue dedicated to the victims of the Holocaust dominates one end; for that reason I call this Holocaust Park.

This is not the only tiny patch of green along Ben Franklin Parkway. The Sister’s City Park across from Saints Peter and Paul Catholic Church nurtures a scattering of green as well. In general, however, the central city of America’s first great city is varying shades of concrete gray.

Birds use my Holocaust Park. There is always a small flock of house sparrows chattering in the crowns of the few trees. American robins are ever present as well; I have seen them digging through the snow in search of food they overlooked. Add European starling and rock pigeons and you have accounted for the resident bird population.

The brilliance of patch birding is that you learn the common quickly. You learn the common intimately. Any interloper is instantly noticed. Resident birds are a background against which the new and unexpected are highlighted.

In the past I have seen an eclectic selection of birds in my Philly patch. American woodcock, prairie warbler, ovenbird, and slate-colored junco are examples of the birds that have dropped in and attracted my notice. My only limitation in birding this patch is that my visits to Philadelphia are rare. If I lived there, I would search my patch daily.

I wonder how these birds even find this patch. I assume that birds displaced in the city search out any miniscule scrap of green. While in college I birded the trees around the city hall in Houston every morning on the way to class. Migrants, attracted by the lights and disoriented by the tall buildings, would crowd into these live oaks each morning. I guess that the birds in my Philadelphia patch are doing the same.

However, I am convinced that some of the patch birds have selected this site. For example, for the past few winters I have noticed a small group of white-throated sparrows scattered among the trees. They stay the winter. Are these lost birds, or have they found a place where they can survive the winter and therefore return each year.

I suspect both. I imagine that young birds find the patch, survive their first winter, and therefore repeat the pattern the remainder of their lives. Wandering individuals join these acclimated birds each year. The result is that my patch has a wintering group of white-throated sparrows that I can count on seeing.

If I banded these birds I suspect that I would see many of the same individual birds each year. They nest far to the north (although a few breed in the mountains of northern Pennsylvania); I know that they are not local nesters. But winter site fidelity is strong in many birds, and I know, from personal experience, that this is true for white-throated sparrows.

For many years I banded in High Island's Scout’s Woods, and every year I would recapture white-throated sparrows that I had netted in previous years. These sparrows would arrive each fall, somehow find their way to this postage stamp of woods on the Texas coast, and remain through the spring. If these birds can find High Island, surely they can find my Holocaust Park.

Banding also allows you to get to know birds personally. As birders we count species. As a bander you notice individuals. For example, I once color-banded shorebirds along the Texas coast. One greater yellowlegs that I banded returned to the same part of the flats at San Luis Pass (the western tip of Galveston Island) for seven consecutive years.

I came to know this yellowlegs as an individual, a bird faced with its own unique set of challenges. I believe that each bird approaches life in a singular fashion. While they are constrained by specific genes, they still make choices that are so fine-tuned they escape our notice.

Learning a patch gives me a closer look at the life of birds collectively as well as individually. Perhaps I imagine knowing each bird. Perhaps my need to get closer, to become more familiar, masks a more pedestrian reality.

Yet there are times when there is evidence that bolsters my conjectures. Each fall I would watch the flats at San Luis Pass in hopes of seeing the arrival of “my” yellowlegs. And every visit to Philadelphia I shuffle past Holocaust Park in expectation of being greeted by “my” white-throated sparrows.

What happens when Holocaust Park is developed? There are plans for a museum at this site. Will my birds find other sites or other parks? What if there are no other sites, or that the other sites have their own white-throated sparrows?

Perhaps there are green spaces where my sparrows can resettle. I hope so. But what about my greater yellowlegs? What happens when San Luis Pass is inundated by sea level rise? What happens to the tens of thousands of shorebirds that migrate through or winter there? What about the black skimmers, least terns, Wilson's plovers, and Texas horned larks that nest there? Forget moving; the neighboring flats will be inundated as well.

Yet tonight I am not worrying about climate change. I am in Philadelphia to celebrate my grandson Han's birthday. This afternoon I walked over to my park to see my sparrows. I am hoping that the recent election will allow the world to begin to patch together a solution for climate change. But tonight I am enjoying my own.

Tell Us Your Sandy Stories

 

A week ago today, I was riding with Ryan Tomazin to Pittsburgh International Airport. We’d just been at the Brooks Bird Club’s 80th birthday bash. Despite the dreary weather, a good time was had by all. I mean, what’s not to like about a Chan Robbins keynote, all-you-can-eat buffets, and even a vintage Ms. Pac-Man machine. (Inside joke; some of you will get it. The rest of you, just laugh along.)

On the ride back to the airport, though, I was just a tad apprehensive. The storm of the century was on its way. It had been raining steadily for a few hours now, and the temperature was down into the low 40s. There were already reports of cancelled flights, and I wondered if I would be impacted.

“We’re coming up on Cheat Lake,” Ryan announced.

Cheat Lake is a huge reservoir just south of the Pennsylvania line. It’s one of the best places in West Virginia for water birds.

Ryan asked, “Do you see anything?”

In fact, there were birds down there.

“Canada Geese...I guess.”

Ryan kept on driving.

At the airport, the flight board was lighting up with that dreaded sequence of letters: C-A-N-C-E-L-L-E-D. My flight was westbound, however, and I was back in Denver that night. Whew.

 

When I checked my email the next morning, Ryan was in full-on I-told-you-so mode. An epic fallout was under way at Cheat Lake, and the action had started just an hour or so before Ryan and I had driven over the I-68 causeway late Sunday afternoon. My “Canada Geese,” it turns out, were probably Atlantic Brant. Morgantown birder John Boback had found 20+ on the lake, and John and others were reporting lots of scoters, loons, and whatnot. Those are fine birds for inland West Virginia. Ryan, if you’re out there, please forgive me for the blown call.

This was only the beginning.

The next day, I got an email from Mike Fialkovich, a birding pal from my late teen years. He described what has to be one of the most astonishing birding phenomena I’ve ever heard of.

First, a bit of context. It was Tuesday, October 30th, “The Day After” for folks along the New Jersey and New York coastlines. In southwestern Pennsylvania, where Mike lives, Tuesday was the day they’ll never forget.

Spurred on a report by not just one, but two, rare Pomarine Jaegers at Green Run Lake, Fayette County, Pennsylvania, Mike stopped by after work on Tuesday. Nearing the lake, he noticed a decent flock of “gulls.”

Except they weren’t gulls.

They were jaegers, some twenty-nine (29) of them, mostly or maybe entirely Pomarines. Seeing just one (1) jaeger of any species is a thrill for me. Seeing one way inland in Fayette County would be especially impressive. But 29?! I’ve never seen that many jaegers in a flock at sea. I’ve never seen that many on the nesting grounds. I really can’t wrap my brain around the idea of 29 jaegers all in one spot. Yet there were, out on the lake, then all picking up, then landing again, then rising again, and so forth.
Left: Pomarine Jaeger. Photo by Nate Swick.

Other birders had arrived, and they and Mike watched in awe. After a while, the birds rose up again in the swirling snow, kettled like hawks, and flew off into the snowstorm.

I can’t think of a more potent symbol of Sandy’s might than Mike Fialkovich’s 29 jaegers swirling in the snow at Green Run Lake. Strong hurricanes blow powerful seabirds inland; Sandy was notably strong, and Poms are inarguably powerful. Yes, Sandy was strong, but Sandy was no mere hurricane. That’s a lesson that was affirmed for Pittsburgh birder Jack Solomon and me two nights before Sandy’s landfall.

 

It was the last night of the Brooks Bird Club meeting, and it was getting on toward midnight. Jack had been teasing me—he’s been doing that for 30 years—about the folly of standing in cold rain listening for nocturnal flight calls.

“Let’s take it outside, Jack.”

The instant we walked out of the lodge at Blackwater Falls State Park, we heard buzzy flight calls, loud and clear. Jack was genuinely impressed, but bedtime or the bar—I’m not sure which—beckoned, and he went back in. Me, too, to get my VN-8100PC. When I got back outside, the birds were still going at it, still going over.

The experience was mesmerizing. I thought I heard a few Common Yellowthroats, and maybe a Palm Warbler. But what were all those other calls? Well, I was recording them, and I’d find out after I got back to Denver.

To cut to the chase, they were almost all Blackpoll Warblers. They were up there, calling constantly, pretty much the whole time I was there. Bill Evans has cautioned that I may have been hearing a lot of repeats—birds circling around the relatively bright lights of the lodge. I suspect he’s right; however, for reasons that I won’t bother you with, I also think there was a steady passage of birds that night.

     
Blackpoll Warblers recorded on nocturnal migration over Blackwater Falls State Park, near Davis, Tucker County,
West Virginia, 11:15-11:20 p.m., Saturday, October 27, 2010. Recordings by Ted Floyd.

The whole time I was out there, winds were light but steady out of the north; it was foggy, and a very light rain—more of a mist, really—was falling. This was the other half of what would become Superstorm Sandy; this was the cold front. The birds—the Blackpolls, a few other warblers, a Hermit Thrush, a White-throated Sparrow—were getting out ahead of the storm. Forty-eight hours later, Blackwater Falls would be under a blizzard warning.

I just thought of something: My Sandy story starts even earlier in the week.

 

On Wednesday evening, Oct. 24th, I was getting ready for my travel the next day to Pennsylvania and West Virginia. I had a zillion and one things to deal with, but my kids would have none of it.

“It’s snowing! It’s snowing!”

It was indeed snowing—a lot harder than I had thought it would. A quick check of the Denver Post’s website informed me that forecasters had “beefed up” their forecast; at least half a foot would fall on Denver, and then there would be another shot Thursday night into Friday. It was all part of the same system that would eventually make its way east to combine with Hurricane Sandy, and then transmogrify into Superstorm Sandy.

The reach of Sandy was long indeed. Fortunately, I was spared the worst of it. I got out of West Virginia before the blizzard. My Sunday night flight from Pittsburgh took me west, not east. Nevertheless, I experienced Sandy at three different, if somewhat peripheral, levels: With Ryan Tomazin, I witnessed the beginning of the historic Pennsylvania–West Virginia fallout; with Jack Solomon, I listened to the anxious flight calls of warblers leaving ahead of the storm; and with my kids, I got to see what I now know to be the precursor of it all.

I said three levels, but, you know, there’s a fourth level.

 

I wasn’t there with Mike Fialkovich, but his story is nevertheless spellbinding for me. What can I say?—I enjoy vicarious birding. I love hearing other birders’ stories.

On that note, perhaps my favorite Sandy story involves ABA President Jeff Gordon. Jeff had been at the Cape May Autumn Weekend, and he couldn’t make it out on time. After a few days stranded in the Philadelphia area, Jeff finally booked a flight through Chicago. Now despite what Winging It Editor and native Midwesterner Michael Retter may say, Chicago’s airports are cursed. And Jeff’s experience there proves it. His flight out of Midway was greatly delayed because of—wait for it—a busted toilet. In fact, the lavatory was so crippled, they gave the passengers a whole new airplane.

Enough. If I haven’t lost count, that’s five Sandy stories now. Some of them involve no birds. Some of them don’t involve me. Some of them involve neither birds nor me. But all of them involve birders, in some way or another.

Sandy affected so many of us.

Let’s hear your Sandy story or stories. One request: Please include the human dimension of your story. Whom were you with? How did you and your companions cope? Yes, tell us about jaeger fallouts and Blackpoll night-flights; but we also want to hear about Ms. Pac-Man machines and busted airplane toilets.

And, on a serious note, I’m sure I’m speaking on behalf of all my colleagues at the ABA when I say that I’m well aware of Sandy’s terrible toll. Jeff Gordon and I and others on staff are blessed to have gotten through it safely, but we know that other ABA members weren’t as fortunate. (For those birders interested in helping those who have seen the worst of this storm, the American Red Cross disaster relief fund is a worthy outlet.)

If there’s a silver lining in the cloud of Sandy, it’s the indelible reminder that we’re all in this thing together. Please use the “comments” section below to tell us how you and your birding friends were affected by Sandy.

 

How to Use the Intertubes, Part 1: Links

Keep 'em short and sweet

I would like to introduce myself. When you click over to ABA Birding News and send a comment or a question, I'm the guy who gets it. Since mid-August I've received nearly 1,000 messages from people reporting glitches, making suggestions (thank you!), or offering praise (double thank you!). So—having now introduced myself—I would like to share some of what I've learned, and offer some suggestions as to how you can get the most out of using the internet to enhance your birding.

USING LINKS
By far, the number one problem being reported at the moment is broken links—URLs that are copied and pasted into the body of an email message. Here's what happens:

Let's take the very worst offender, Google Maps, as an example. If you place a pin on a Google map of a rare bird sighting, for example, the link that you end up pasting in your email message will come out looking like this:

https://maps.google.com/maps/ms?msa=0&msid=204602211350579994736.000485cd5106b9960e764&ie=UTF8&t=h&ll=38.597654,-88.172836&spn=0.013416,0.025706&z=15&iwloc=0004cc6f1ef18c9f5ae77&source=embed

Note what happened here. The web application we use to run this blog (TypePad) considers the question mark used in the URL to be punctuation that ends a sentence, therefore a line-break is allowed. Many email programs do the same, and the result is that the link is broken when you send it.

But there is a very simple way to ensure that this never happens. On the Google Maps page, instead of copying the link from the address bar in your browser, click the link icon in the Google Maps tools.

In the screen shot above, the red arrow labeled #1 points to the link tool in Google Maps. Clicking it will open the dialog box seen to the right of the icon. Note the "Short URL" check-box (red arrow #2). Click it! The result will be a very short and friendly URL you can safely use anywhere.

Flickr presents us with the same challenge as Google Maps, but just for fun throws in a twist. In addition to having unwieldy-long URL strings, Flickr uses the "@" symbol as well. This poses a problem for us when we make list archives available to the public. We want to keep spammers from harvesting email addresses in the emails posted at Birding News, and we do this by replacing the "@" symbol with " AT " to keep robot phishing attempts from recognizing email addresses.

Because Flickr also uses this symbol in their URLs, we wind up breaking the address string. We also use our own link shortening scheme, but if the link is broken, it only recognizes the first half (this, by the way, is something we are working on handling at the moment). But Flickr too, offers a short link:

When sharing a link to a Flickr photo in an email, always click the "Share" button in the tool bar and use the shortened link. It's easy, and everyone will love you for it.

Link shortening should be simply "what you do" when you share links via email. There's no reason not to, and every reason to use shortened URLs. Some might call this "best practices", but I tend to shy away from corporate mumbo-jumbo-speak ... it's just what you should do.

But what about links to sites that don't offer link shortening? Google offers a link shortener at http://goo.gl/, as does TinyURL, but the best is Bitly.

In addition to shortening URLs as the others above, with a Bitly account (free), you can install a plugin for your browser that allows you to shorten any URL, just as easy as using Flickr or Google Maps. It places a little Bitly button next to your address bar, which when clicked (#1)...

... gives you all kinds of options, in a very simple pop-up dialog. Clicking the Bitly button will shorten the URL of whatever page you are looking at. Simply click the short URL (#2), and it automatically copies the link. Now you can paste it in your email. That's it!

Bitly offers other options, such as saving the shortened URL, sharing it on Facebook and more that we'll get to in another installment of How to Use the Intertubes.

Certainty, Experts, and Confirmation

A couple of friends and I were birding around Jamaica Bay in New York a few years ago. We came upon a couple of people, a man and a woman, looking out over the water and discussing a bird perched in plain view, but a bit distantly, out in the marsh. They didn't seem to be birders (judging by their lack of optics), but one of them suggested it could be an Osprey. I took a look with my binoculars, easily saw the relevant field marks due to the benefit of magnification, and assured them that yes, it's an Osprey. The woman replied "Could be" as they were walking away.

Could be?! How could she doubt someone with expensive binoculars and birding experience? I had confirmed that it was in fact an Osprey, there was no doubt necessary, we now knew it was an Osprey, didn't we? In this post, I want to discuss how we confirm identifications, what we mean by expert, and how we ever know we are right. It is a treacherous subject, as birding reputations are built on accuracy and perceived infallibility, but I think it is a necessary discussion that may reveal a lot about the community of birders and our interpretations of other people's birding abilities.

What kind of hawk is this? Larger pictures available here. Read more about this bird below.

More recently, I found a hawk on our property. We haven't had a lot of raptors on our farm, not even migrants. I've been hoping for more buteos, and as soon as I saw this bird I knew it was a new species for us. However, I also knew it was going to be a tough ID. It seemed to be a young hawk, smaller than a Red-tail, perched on a dead branch in the morning fog. I immediately had it down to two species: Red-shouldered or Broad-winged. But which one? I quickly digibinned a few pictures, taking breaks to look more carefully with my binocular. I really wanted to see the top of the wings, so I decided to walk around the row of pine trees beside me and have a better angle on the bird's back. I quickly but quietly moved around the pines, and of course the bird was gone. Fortunately I had the pictures, and headed indoors to clinch an ID.

I started with reference books, but didn't find a definitive answer. I only saw the bird from the front, and young Red- shoulders and Broad-wings can be really similar from that angle. I was leaning toward Broad-wing (it was around the peak of their migration through the east), but I certainly wasn't leaning very strongly. I decided to seek outside help, get some other views on the matter. I emailed pictures to some of my birding friends and to the Ohio-Birds email list. One of my first responses was from the list, someone I didn't know. His name was John Blakeman, and he introduced himself: "Blake, I'm a master falconer and raptor biologist. The bird is a red-tailed hawk, clearly. But I'm not so sure it's an immature. Did you see the brown tail? The tail here looks too short for an immature. Immie RTs have tails about an inch longer than adults. But no doubt, a red-tail. --John Blakeman."

I panicked for a second. Wait, was this a Red-tail? Did I just jeopardize my birding reputation by asking for ID help on the most commonly seen hawk in the country? I went back to the pictures, and quickly assured myself that it indeed wasn't a Red-tail. How did I know? Well...it didn't look like one to me. I started to receive other replies; Haans Petruschke said, "...Looks like a Red-Shouldered Hawk. Others may say something else based upon plumage, but the eye structure and shape is pure Red-shouldered." Then another reply, "Immature Red Shouldered Hawk. (For what it's worth, raptors are my specialty.)" This last was another reply trying to convey the idea of knowledge and experience. Not confirmation necessarily, but just trying to indicate that they weren't some random person who started birding yesterday; they had time and experience and background with this subject. A couple of my birding friends agreed with Red-shouldered, but then a couple said Broad-wing, and then a couple more from the email list also said Broad-wing, so I was faced with a split vote. I really wanted to add this bird to our property list, so what to do?

I joined the ID-Frontiers email list to post a message about this bird. I included a link to the pictures, hoping to gain some insight from those on the 'frontiers of identification.' I knew that there were a few people on the Ohio-Birds email list who also subscribed to ID-Frontiers, but I hadn't heard an opinion from them. Based on the split vote, I thought that moving it up to a higher court was acceptable. But what do I mean by acceptable? Aren't birders available to help others, would anyone judge you for asking a stupid question? I mentioned to my wife I was thinking about emailing Sibley to get his opinion. She was incredulous: can you just email Sibley? I felt like it was an identification question that was worthy of expert advice; I'm not a new birder sending out a fuzzy picture of an obvious Brown Pelican. I have some idea what I'm talking about and didn't know what this hawk was, and other people couldn't agree, so I didn't think I'd be wasting anyone's time. I knew many respected birders were on ID-Frontiers, and I would get some good feedback. I received three responses; the one I weighted highest came from Bill Clark, co-author of the Peterson Field Guide to Hawks of North America. He said it was a Broad-winged, and I took that as the final answer.

I emailed the Ohio-Birds list, saying I'd accepted the expert testimony from ID-Frontiers (all in favor of Broad-wing). Case closed. John Blakemen replied, "Blake, You are certainly welcome to assign the ID of the hawk photo to a Broadwinged. But all of the Broadwings I've ever dealt with have distinct but subtle horizontal patterns on the breast, not the vertical ones on your provided photo...Redtails (except in the vary rare melanistic specimens) always have the central, upper breast lighter than the belly band or flanks of the upper breast (chest area), exactly as on your photo of your bird. Red-shouldereds and Broadwings have evenly hued coloration and evenly-patterned upper breasts. But the lack of horizontal patterning on the upper or middle breast negates a Broadwing for me, and the presence of a less-patterned, slightly lighter central area on the upper breast marks the bird as a Red-tail for me. I've trapped, banded, and rehabbed many dozens of Buteos in 40 yrs of working with these birds. John A. Blakeman".

I quickly did an internet search for John Blakeman. Who is this guy? Does he really have the credentials that he claims? I quickly found that yes, indeed he does. He has many years of hands-on experience with these birds. How do I decide which expert to believe, which claims to consider valid, how do I confirm an identification when it isn't clear-cut? The bird is gone, there is no way to get it back. We can't collect further evidence to make a final determination. What if everyone I consulted said it was a Broad-wing? What if they all said it was a Red-tail? Would I listen to the majority, or choose voices here and there? Maybe this bird was a hybrid, or a ghost (I mean a literal ghost, not one of the two species we sometimes call 'gray ghosts')?

My point is, we often have no way to be certain of our identifications. We see a bird, we put a name on it, and it flies away. We don't know whether we were right or wrong. Even if we move it to a higher authority, we can't know for sure if they were right or wrong. One of the people who corresponded with me suggested I try whatbird.com; the site includes a forum where people will help you identify birds. Many people post pictures, hoping to find someone knowledgeable to determine the bird's identity. Many times the responses say something like, "Chipping Sparrow. Confirmed." That is supposed to mean that the person doing the confirming knows what the species is, and they know that they are right. But how do any of us ever know that for sure?

When I decided to write this post, I emailed all of the participants in the discussion and asked whether it would be okay to use their names and responses. A couple were reticent at first, they wanted to check what they had said to me before having it thrust upon a larger birding audience. Why is that?

It is partly because birding credibility is fragile; there are people who think they are good at identifying birds, very willing to share their expertise, but who in fact lack those skills. People who are well-known in birding circles or make their living from birding-related enterprises are justifiably concerned about being lumped in with these other 'bad birders.' Unfortunately, this often keeps them quiet when a difficult identification arises. Sometimes the best identification is 'I Don't Know', but we don't usually want to admit that fact. Even worse is proposing an incorrect identification. This has the obvious side effect of stifling discourse and preventing knowledge from being shared. I was impressed when Birding began running photo quizzes where different birders explained their identification and how they got there. This prevented a consensus view from clouding perception and coloring judgment. Sometimes the experts differed, and I don't think there is anything wrong with that. Maybe there was no right answer (hybrids...or ghosts).

My point with this post is not to decide what kind of hawk is in the pictures, or decide which birders are better than others. I wanted to point out that we perceive different levels of birding expertise, and there are people and organizations we are more likely to believe. It isn't always clear why we choose to believe some people over others, or how we pick which 'experts' to consult. The next time you are out birding and run across someone grossly misinformed about the identification of a bird, feel free to do your best to correct their obvious error. Just remember, they may be trying to do the same thing for you.

Been Banding Lately?

Last weekend I had the pleasure of visiting an educational bird banding station run by the Rocky Mountain Bird Observatory at Barr Lake State Park, just northeast of Denver.  Meredith McBurney and her team of volunteers do a fantastic job of engaging school groups, bird club trips, individual birders, and passers-by (the banding table is along a popular hiking trail.)  Meredith is amazing at explaining what's going on with each bird to anyone from pre-schoolers to folks with decades of serious birding under their belts.  Birds in hand catalyze discussions ranging from the esoteric to expressions of delight and amazement.  During my visit I compared and contrasted subtle Dusky vs. Hammond's Flycatcher features and pondered why silent fall "Western" Flycatchers in Colorado should be left at that instead of putting Cordilleran or Pacific-slope tags on them.  But equally cool topics included shared retinal wonderment at the vivid azure hues on a Blue Jay or amazement at the impossibly tiny bundle of migratory energy wrapped up in a MacGillivray's Warbler.

Birders of all ages & experience levels have much to learn at a bird banding station.

I've been to many banding stations throughout my birding life and always come away knowing more than I did before the visit.  My last trip also reminded me that bird banding is also a potentially good hook for beginners.  As a follow-up to the outstanding Pledge 2 Fledge initiative, perhaps you'd consider bringing a new birder to a banding station near you!  

Seeing what Peter Pyle says about determinging age & sex of Townsend's Warblers.

One last detailed look at a Townsend's Warbler before it continues on its way towards warmer climes for the winter.

Kids who mind their P's and Q's might even get to help release a bird like this MacGillivray's Warbler.

Studying in-hand nuances of birds like this Cassin's Vireo can help birders get a grip on tricky field IDs such as separating species within the Solitary Vireo complex.

 

A Nunavut Adventure

Mark Maftei writes in depth about his time working in Nunavut in the May 2012 issue of Birding.

--=====--

Well, the past year has gone by in a total blur, and the last week has been interesting to say the least - a spur of the moment decision to move a boat across the country coincided quite nicely with the spring migration. I started last week seawatching in Newfoundland, and crossed the Maritimes and Quebec while enjoying the rapidly springing spring , I staged a full-scale assault on Point Pelee, a stop for shorebirds in Saskatchewan a few days later, and ultimately a quick pelagic off the west coast of Vancouver Island before heading back up to Nunavut at the end of the month.

The birding has been amazing, as spring migration always is just about anywhere in North America, but I find myself getting more and more excited to head back up north again. I guess zugunruhe affects humans too! Although I have literally seen more species of birds in the last 20 minutes from the deck on which I am writing this than I expect to see all summer long, the chance to be part of the ins and outs of a breeding season in a High Arctic seabird colony is an opportunity I will never pass up. Not only are the birds amazing, but the overall experience is truly unique. Great people, great times, and of course, all the unexpected surprises a three month long Arctic safari will deliver! Here are some highlights from last year!

How the Harlequin Duck Lost His Life

The title of this post is meant to mark it as the less cheery companion to the May 2012 Birding magazine article, "How the Harlequin Duck Got His Spots." That article, if you haven't yet read it, is a really wonderful piece of birder ornithology, the work of passionate amateurs that measurably advances our understanding of the processes behind the creation of one of Nature's masterpieces: the gaudy, gorgeous plumage of drake Harlequin Ducks.

Built around a series of ten photos by Paul Higgins and text by Keith Evans that follows a hatch year male Harlequin over a pivotal 2 months in his life, during which he goes from looking very much like his Mom to very much like his Dad. The first and last shots in that sequence are shown below. (Note: Higgins' photos are much better looking in the magazine than they are in the crummy scans I did for this post.)

 

 This insight was possible for two main reasons. One, there were some birders who were interested enough to watch and photograph this bird (actually, there were 3 Harlequins present, but the article focuses on Harley One, as they called him) over several months. Two, there were confiding Harlequin Ducks hanging out in an accesible location that could be easily revisited, in this case the Antelope Island causeway just north of Salt Lake City, Utah.

View Larger Map

The story takes what many, but not all, will consider a darker turn from here.

I will leave it to those who know the particulars better than I to fill in more detail but the gist of it is this: not long after that last November 25 photo was taken, the Harlequin Ducks were shot and killed by a hunter or hunters. That's how Harley One, so soon after getting his spots, lost his life.

There are a couple of other things worth mentioning in framing what I hope will be a productive discussion in the comments section. It was legal for the hunter(s) to shoot Harlequin Ducks, unquestionably. Though many birders in areas where Harlequin Ducks are rare might find the thought of Harley hunting foreign, even a bit hard to picture, a quick Google image search on Harlequin Duck Hunting will return plenty of evidence that it does occur.

Further, it was apparently legal for the birds to be shot from Antelope Island causeway, though, again, that might come as a surprise to many, given that it is a fairly heavily trafficked road just outside a major metropolitan area.

Finally, there is at least suspicion, and again I hope those closer to the events will chime in, that the hunters heard of the ducks' presence on the causeway by reading a birding e-mail list. I would like to have this assertion definitively proved or disproved, but such may not be possible.

Here are a few points I'd like us to discuss, for starters:

1. Though I find that bird hunters and birders generally want the same basic thing, good bird populations and habitat, this is a case where the interests of a very few hunters completely trumped the interests of a much larger number of birders. (Or maybe I've got that wrong—maybe the interests of the entire hunting community were served by just one or two individuals getting to shoot those ducks? It's important to get the questions right if we're to have any hope of finding good answers.) What, if anything, are we to do about this, to lessen the chances that it happens again?

2. What, if any, legal or ethical restrictions are there or ought there be on those who would harvest, for science or for sport, wild birds that are likely to be seen, enjoyed, and even studied by many more people, if they are left alive?

3. What, if any, restrictions should we place on the sharing of bird locations among our community, knowing that such information may from time to time result in harm coming to those birds, whether from birders, photographers, hunters, or ornithologists?

4. How would you like to see the American Birding Association respond to situations like this? How should our Code of Ethics be revised or appended to address them?

5. This winter, quite a few people got very, very upset at the actions of photographers flushing Snowy Owls in attempts to photograph them. How is this incident the same or different, worse or better?

Hunters and hunting, and their relationships to birders, birding, and conservation is certainly one of those topics that can generate more heat than light. Though I'm not asking anyone to pull any punches, I do ask that commenters keep their tone civil and respectful. Thanks in advance for sharing your thoughts and feelings.