Ten Best Birds of 2017

This year was a pretty rocky one for me and many of my friends. For me, the highlights of this year were definitely those that involved being in the field and fleeing the national and international news, “real life” as some may call it. Whether out leading trips, taking walks alone, birding with friends and loved ones, or banding birds, there was always something to see and always a highlight. For the first time in many years, I didn’t get out of the country, but I made it to some brand new places, saw some incredible birds, and had some outstanding experiences and moments with birds and friends alike. Here are, in chronological order, my ten favorite birds and birding experiences of 2017.

1. In February, I was lucky enough to be on the BRANT Nature Tours crew that led field trips for the GBNA/QBNA meeting in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Being able to go home and spend some time with my ABQ family was a real treat, though my time there proved to be non-stop action with little time outside of scheduled events. It was a fabulously successful and fun three days of leading Albuquerque hotspot trips and spending time in some favorite old haunts like Embudito and Rinconada Canyons. I even had the opportunity to go to Otero Canyon and hike the loop up the Blue Ribbon Trail to the Rocky Road and made a pilgrimage to Marble Girl’s nest site, hallowed ground for my heart and mind. On my last morning in ABQ, after all of the festivities were over, Dave Krueper and I went hiking in the Sandia Mountains at a favorite little spot of mine. It was a crisp winter morning but the south Sandias were full of bird activity. My favorite “bird of the day” were the Red Crossbills that flew overhead, calling out, and requiring that we admire them. And so we did. Any day with crossbills is a good day because that usually means one has been to the mountains. And so I was, and so it was. 

Dave and me birding the south Sandia Mountains, New Mexico.

2. Not long after I got back from New Mexico, news broke that an Ivory Gull had been spotted in Flint, Michigan. Since I’m easily influenced and Ryan Jacob really likes gulls, we decided a chase was in order. Larry, Ryan, and I shot up to Flint to try for it. Unfortunately, while there were birders combing the entire Flint River corridor, the bird had not been found so far that morning. We decided to cruise up and down the river in search of open water and flocks of gulls. After a few cold and fruitless hours, we got word from Kim Kaufman that the bird had been relocated at the original site. We rocketed in that direction and spent a good hour or so watching the gull, photographing it, and sharing in the revelry with many other birders, lots of whom we knew. It was an Ivory Gull party like none other. On our way back home we went to a delicious crepe restaurant and coffeehouse and then all had of our lifer IKEA experience, which none of us could decide if we loved or hated. We could all agree that chasing the Ivory Gull was one heck of a great way to spend a cold March day!

Ivory Gull in Flint, Michigan on a cold winter day.

3. Toward the end of March, Larry and I finally got to fulfill a dream of mine when I took him to Hocking Hills for his first visit. He had never seen this part of Ohio and as we watched her begin to wake up from her winter slumber, I’d like to think Larry was pretty captivated by it. I know I was. We hiked Old Man’s Cave, Ash Cave, Conkle’s Hollow, and some trails at Zaleski State Forest over the course of a few days, looking for wildflowers and salamanders while photographing icicles and waterfalls that were just starting to break free. We stayed at a marvelous AirBnB cottage on a large property with hiking trails along a stream that butted up against state forest. We spent an afternoon hiking here and went as far as we could up a side stream until we found a series of little caves and a magical little waterfall that I crawled behind and sat under. I was in absolute awe. On the way back, I picked up some mylar balloons that had migrated downstream from somewhere unknown, we were determined to leave this place better than we found it. Right when we got to the spot in the stream where the water was crashing and bubbling the loudest, we started to hear other sounds of crashing and bubbling. A Winter Wren had decided that this little stream we were so enamored with was good enough for him to spend the season on. He was apparently taking as much joy in the moment of being on that stream as we were and was belting out his song to let everyone know. Or, he was merely doing what Winter Wrens do and was cruising a loud part of the stream with a voice that had to match it, just looking to survive the winter and make it back to the breeding grounds. In that moment though, the reason didn’t matter. All I knew was I was standing in a clear rushing stream in muck boots with cliffs, and moss, and icicles, and patches of snow all around, under a canopy of tall, tall trees and listening to the exaltations of a Winter Wren with the person I love most on this Earth. And it was glorious. 

Birding Old Man's Cave, Hocking Hills, Ohio.

4. In early April I headed to the Upper Texas Coast to spend a long weekend visiting Martin Hagne in Lake Jackson at Gulf Coast Bird Observatory and taking part in a Houston Audubon Society fundraising event with my very dear friends Laurel Ladwig, Karen Herzenberg, Nancy Cox, and Rich Gibbons. The fundraiser is an annual big sit that takes place at Katrina’s Corner in Smith Oaks Woods on High Island. Katrina was Laurel’s mother and was instrumental in the founding of Houston Audubon Society and was an active member for many years. The big sit is a way of commemorating her as well as a way to do something positive for conservation, something Laurel knows her mother would have loved. I managed to snag a couple lifers on this trip (Nelson’s Sparrow and [finally] Seaside Sparrow), Martin drove us into a ditch when we spotted a late Northern Gannet flyover (it was okay, we were in Martin’s Tacoma so we just drove right out of the ditch), and we had an insane showing of Piping Plover, Wilson’s Plover, and Snowy Plover on the beach at Bolivar Flats (in addition to finding not one but TWO Long-tailed Ducks), but the bird of the trip for me was the Barn Owl that flew directly over Katrina’s Corner while we sat on the benches watching the drip. Or no, maybe it was the Hooded Warbler that came in to the drip when it was almost too dark to see. Or it could have been the Snowy Egrets making their low guttural giggles and chuckles at the rookery nearby. It turns out that this experience was all about the experience. I was deeply honored to be able to be on the team for the big sit and loved every minute of the camaraderie and friendship of that weekend. One of my favorite birding experiences of the year. 

Rich Gibbons had the real elevated perch in this photo snapped during our big sit at Katrina's Corner in April, High Island, Texas.

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5. During the month of May, there’s only one thing on my mind: migration. I can’t travel during migration and really I wouldn’t want to anyway. Witnessing migration and studying it intently at two sites (the Navarre Marsh, where we conduct our migration banding efforts, and my own backyard) is an incredible privilege and endlessly fascinating. Once the Biggest Week in American Birding is over (one of the largest birding festivals in the U.S., which is put on by Black Swamp Bird Observatory), we don’t even come close to slowing down. In fact, the week after the Biggest Week was even bigger than the Biggest Week in terms of bird numbers. We banded an insane number of birds, adding a significant chunk of data to our already vast dataset, but not all of the great bird sightings were of birds in the hand or even birds at the station. I got word that several people had seen Connecticut Warbler on the famed Magee Marsh boardwalk. This had long been a blank spot on Larry’s lifelist as he was just never in the right place at the right time to even attempt to see this hard-to-find bird. So we headed up to the boardwalk to try and sneak a peek. After birding for a while but not finding a Connecticut, we decided to make our way back home for lunch. On our way out though, we bumped into Chris Brown who had news of a recent sighting just a little ways back on the boards, so we headed back in. We pretty quickly found the bird and got some nice looks at it. High fives all the way around the horn and a black space filled on Larry’s checklist. It was a fabulous moment! But then, just two days later, Larry and I were birding the yard on an extremely productive migration day. I thought I heard a familiar syncopated rhythm on our way out to the back, but I didn’t hear it again and I chalked it up to wishful thinking. On our way back though, while on the far side of the thicket, I heard it again and I knew I wasn’t imagining things this time. I yelled to Larry and we took off running in the direction of the caller, a dapper male Connecticut Warbler waltzing through the forbs and belting out his best Devo: “Whip it up! Whip it good!” We spent two hours out there just listening to that bird singing and enjoying every minute of it. 

Not the same Connecticut Warbler from our yard, but one I banded in the Navarre Marsh just a few days before one showed up at home, Oak Harbor, Ohio.

6. After the banding season wrapped up in June, Larry and I embarked upon a trip that had been a long time coming for us. We went to visit our dear friend Pat Folsom in Vermont. I was so excited to visit a new state, finally see the Green Mountains, indulge in all things maple, and of course, spend almost a whole week with Pat in her neck of the woods. We started the trip off with a visit to my Aunt and Uncle’s house in Jamestown, New York and a quick outing to the Roger Tory Peterson Institute, an incredible establishment. After spending a few days birding the bogs up in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont (which even included a 10 minute trip to New Hampshire where we could do a quick eBird checklist because “it doesn’t count if you don’t eBird there”), we headed back to Pat’s part of the state. We had all been eagerly awaiting our trip up Mt. Mansfield, the highest mountain in Vermont. Pat had arranged with Chris from Vermont Center for Ecostudies for us to join their banding crew on one of their overnight trips. That evening, I heard a Bicknell’s Thrush for the first time ever and almost crumbled to the ground in awe. Thrushes will never cease to amaze me with the sounds that they make, especially the Catharus thrushes. But it’s not just about the voice and the sound. It’s also about the smell of the forest, and the touch of mist on your face. It’s the background “tick, tick, tick”ing of Blackpoll Warblers and the round-topped mountain covered in krumholz habitat so thick and dense it might as well be a jungle. We spent the night in sleeping bags on the floor of the ski patrol headquarters and even though I was totally whipped, I woke up right at the break of day, unable to contain my excitement any longer. Ali Wagner and I hiked up to the top of the mountain from the ski patrol hut, birding our way up in the morning light. We banded Bicknell’s Thrushes and Blackpoll Warblers, heard more of each, and fulfilled a wish we had all made together years before. It was easily one of the best moments of 2017. 

Captivated by the sounds of Bicknell's Thrush on Mt. Mansfield, Vermont.

7. In July, I was once again lucky enough to be invited to be an instructor for Camp Colorado, one of the American Birding Association’s Young Birders camps. A week in the mountains with the nation’s finest young birders is something that absolutely feeds my soul and while my feet prefer to tread on rocky, uneven ground, our day in the lowlands at the Pawnee National Grasslands is always one of the highlights of the week. If my bird of the day could have been pronghorn (Antilocapra americana), it would be, but in keeping of the theme of things with feathers, we were all flabbergasted to discover an Upland Sandpiper sitting on a fencepost on the side of the highway in mid-afternoon. David La Puma and Jennie Duberstein expertly (and safely) whipped the vans around and got every person point-blank, jaw-dropping stares at this Uppie, who obliged us nicely and sat for photos. It was a first for the Camp Colorado list and even though I had seen Uppies when I was in Texas in April, this one was a far sweeter treat for all of us. It was one of those purely serendipitous birding moments and we all got to share it together. 

Camp Colorado birding the Pawnee National Grasslands, Colorado.

8. On the heels of Camp Colorado, I flew straight from Denver to El Paso to head down to the Davis Mountains to study hummingbird banding with Kelly Bryan. I had been to the Davis Mountains before and had been in awe of their beauty, but I was unprepared for what Kelly had in store for us. The guest cabin we were staying in was simply stunning, with a big front porch that overlooked the canyon below. I laid on my yoga mat on that porch crying at the sheer beauty of those mountains and that scene. In that moment the Davis Mountains got inside of my heart and I’ve been thinking of them ever since. After four days of hummingbird banding, including the first time I’ve had the chance to see a Rivoli’s Hummingbird in the hand; one of the best hikes of the year, up to see the wreckage from a small plane that crashed decades ago and then onto the ridge above for amazing vista landscapes; and the telling of a great many tall tales of birding adventures with kindred spirits, our time at Kelly’s was over. Annie Crary, Ryan Jacob, and I headed back toward El Paso for our flight the next day. We birded our way through the mountains… well, Annie and I birded, while Ryan looked for dragonflies (joking, but also kinda not). With Ryan driving and me in the front passenger seat, I caught a glimpse of a shadow above. “TV.” Ryan said. To which I replied “Uh, dude. I don’t think so.” We rounded a curve in the road, pulled off the side, and all jumped out simultaneously, perfectly synchronized to watch a Zone-tailed Hawk cruise over the ridge and right over us, point-blank, and oh, so beautiful. Sometimes when you’re birding, you have these moments that you couldn’t have scripted if you wanted to. Perfect moments. This was one of those. 

Our cabin in the Davis Mountains, Texas.

 9. I love having a late summer birthday and one that coincides with fall migration. While most people like to take off of work on their birthday, I have banded on nearly all of my birthdays for the last dozen years. It’s a privilege to get to spend my birthday doing what I love to do, even if it does mean I need to wake up pretty darn early do to it. This year, I had just a taste of banding when I went into the marsh to start the day, then left when the reinforcements got there. During the time I was at the station though, I watched the sunrise and had the opportunity to band one of my all-time favorite birds, a Wood Thrush. It was a spectacular migration day and as soon as I got home, I called Larry out into the yard so we could survey the birds that had come into our woods and thicket overnight. I heard a Yellow-billed Cuckoo and called it out. Staying vigilant, Larry and I twice watched it fly across our yard between large trees. We had gorgeous views of it in flight as well as foraging in the trees in our front yard. It was a new yard bird for us and an exciting find! Nature gives the best birthday presents. 

The Wood Thrush I banded on my birthday. Navarre Marsh, Ottawa NWR, OH.

10. In November, I migrated back to the southwest to again lead trips for my best buds at BRANT. This time it was for the Festival of the Cranes, a fest I’ve been involved with as a bander for Rio Grande Bird Research and field trip leader with BRANT for eleven years. On the second day of the festival, I got to lead an owl trip with Michael Hilchey, seemingly an annual tradition. Michael and I have led a lot of owl trips together over the years and I’m always in awe of just how good he is at these trips in particular. Over the course of a few minutes, he called a Western Screech-Owl in (by voice, as usual) for our group of 20. We knew the owl was close, Michael leaned over to me and directed me to hit my light when he hit his, and there it was! Michael picked out the owl, right out in the open on a perch so obvious that not a single person in the group needed directions to find it. We all just stood in silence, staring. After just a brief period of illumination, we turned off the light and quietly walked away leaving this marvelous little predator to its business.

Our Western Screech-Owl

The first time I ever went to the tropics, I was with Michael in Costa Rica, he was a teenager and I was still in my 20’s. We were birding a road together in the cloud forest of the Talamanca Cordillera where we encountered a particularly spririted mixed flock of neotropical migrants and highland resident species. I followed their scolds to a Costa Rican Pygmy Owl, a fine find and a great memory. Any time I get to see an owl while standing next to one of my best friends instantly goes on the lifetime highlight reel.

Thanks for reading along and taking a virtual trip through some of my top highlights of 2017. For those of us who love birds and nature, this year was challenging in so many ways as we see our country headed in the wrong direction when it comes to the environment, conservation, public lands protections, and sustainability. Our collective anxiety over how much worse things might get in 2018 is palpable. In light of this, taking a trip down memory lane to highlight the best moments of the year and focus on those memories that feed our souls and motivate us to spend another year fighting for the Earth and her inhabitants is an essential task. Whenever I’m feeling particularly down, I look back on posts like this and think of all of the marvelous gifts I receive each day from nature, especially the birds. They keep me going through the darkest moments and remind me of what I have dedicated my life to protecting.  

Happy New Year. Peace, Love, Earth. 

The Bird That Shall Not Be Named

Warning: The story you are about to read is true. The names have been maintained to implicate the guilty. The details are both vague and at times graphic. Do not read on an empty stomach or after a big meal. 

If it weren’t so darned pathetic it would have been funny, but that didn’t keep me from laughing about it. And although I laughed about it, truth be told, sometimes I cried about it. As the legend goes, I have thrice cried over it. There came a point when I could not even bring myself to utter its name, or hear it be spoken without cringing. Especially sensitive friends would join me in referring to it as The Bird That Shall Not Be Named. The less sensitive would blurt it out and watch me squirm. 

My near misses were famous among the crowd I run with. Ornithologist and bird guide friends in different states and different countries, scattered across the globe at all times each knew at least a few pieces of the story. Only a handful though knew it all. Now that it’s over, I can celebrate it. And here’s the thing- I’m not so high on myself that I think I’m in any way special. There have been tales like this before and there will be tales much greater to follow. What made the journey funny and endurable was the knowledge that it has happened to most or all of us at some point, at least to some degree. It’s part of what we do; part of the agony and the ecstasy. It makes the highs higher and it defines the lows. And that is why I share the whole wretched tale here. 

I suppose it was just bad luck that I started birding the valley at the exact wrong moment in history- just as the drought began. Though they were always uncommon, with some effort they could be found, particularly if one spent enough time down there and positioned themselves strategically. I missed them on my first trip, but that wasn’t such a big deal. I didn’t really expect to see one anyway. 

During my second trip, some friends who were birding up river claim to have seen one (pictures or it didn’t happen), but that was far away and I was distracted by other goodies. A few years and zero sightings later, by the time I starting leading trips for the festival, there were few valley specialties I was still missing. Mary was nice enough to take a tactical approach and assign me to lead trips in locales that she knew would up my chances of grabbing sight of one.  

As the years rolled on, there were so many trips, so many misses, and so much failure that it has all blurred together. More times than I can count, friends pulled up pictures on the back of their cameras or tagged me in Facebook photos of The Bird That Shall Not Be Named. I suppose they did it out of wishing I had been there for the moment, perhaps with a dash of one-upsmanship thrown in to spice it up. I would laugh. I would shake my fists in the air. I would vow to not care so much. Inside, I was aching. 

One year, I was leading a trip at Santa Ana NWR. I was excited as one had been seen there earlier in the week. I thought my chances on that day as good as they ever were. There was another group present though and they were occupying the Hawk Tower. My group stood below birding the understory, patiently waiting our turn to glass the skies and scan the treetops; patiently waiting even while I heard shouts from the top of the tower that they were seeing the bird. I knew I couldn’t get up there in time and I couldn’t leave my trip participants to even try. That trip wasn’t about me, it was about them. And we all missed the bird together that day. Ouch!

Another year, Martin and I took a Leader’s Choice van trip up to the Santa Ana Hawk Tower. We got ourselves in position early and began scanning. We were joined by a large group of people that maxxed out the capacity of the tower. I guess it was just bad luck that I’m short and just happened to be standing behind the tallest person on the tower when the bird showed. After the bird dipped back down into the woods, Martin turned to me with a big smile of victory on his face and said “Ash! Yeah, huh!?!” I replied “Eh. Not so much.” I watched the joy evaporate from his face as I choked back deep disappointment and embarrassment. Every person on that tower saw it that day, except for the shortest person on the tower. And as the infamous legend grew, the wound only intensified.

Later, when I spoke with my friend Dave about it all, I told him that I knew I would eventually see one. But at that time, I didn’t know if I would laugh or cry or just give the bird the bird and turn and walk away. When it came to that bird, I was a shell of myself. There was zero Zen left for The Bird That Shall Not Be Named. 

During these years, I birded the tropics a lot. I expected eventually to encounter one. I figured if I couldn’t find one in the states, I’d run across a Bird That Shall Not Be Named, or two, down there. Multiple trips to Belize, Costa Rica, and Panama revealed nothing though. In December 2013, while birding in Ecuador our guide spotted a raptor. I got over there just in time to see the hint of a bird disappear forever behind a hill. Andres was pretty nonchalant about stating “That was a ****-****** ****.” I cringed, I sucked it up. I moved on. I saw other way cool birds. I was still happy, but the bruise was still very much there.

In Mexico in early 2014, Amy said “Oh, we once had a ****-****** **** here.” I looked up, trying to imagine it. Not able to do so. 

And so, with each miss. With each photograph. With each story I had to endure from friends who had seen them (and some of them have seen many over the years). For each time I heard about nest monitoring in the valley, banding of youngsters, research projects. For all I learned of their natural history, as a glutton for punishment and out of the thought that I might eventually be smart enough to get myself in the right place at the right time to see one. After all of it, I gave up. Like someone who has been burned in love. Beaten down by failure. Resigned to their fate. I stopped looking. 

I didn’t stop looking for birds. I stopped looking for that bird. I didn’t want the legend anymore. But on the first day of the festival last fall I met up with Ben. He was with a coworker and friend of his who I had not yet met. Just minutes after we all started shooting the breeze, somehow The Bird That Shall Not Be Named came up (I believe my new friend mentioned it). I recoiled and began to babble incoherent jibberish. Ben told him that I was “The One.” 

“Oh, that’s you” my new friend politely and disquietly exclaimed. Apparently, the legend had grown to even outside of my immediate circle. This time I truly laughed heartily. The idea that the legend was bigger than I was comical. I embraced the role. It was what it was. 

On the last day of the festival, I was leading a Bentsen trip with Doug and two other guides. We had split our large group in half and Doug and I wandered out to see if we could get our participants good looks at some of the birds we hadn’t yet seen as well as we would have liked. Doug was walking ahead of the group and I was following up at the rear. I looked up and called up to Doug “Two raptors in the air.” I quickened my pace to get up to the rest of the group to put my scope on the birds.

And then. The darndest thing happened. I just stared at them. Through the scope. I just followed them. I couldn’t think other than to say to myself “Gosh they are strange-looking birds.” I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t do anything else. Doug yelled out “Hook-billed Kites! They’re Hook-billed Kites!” and furiously radioed the other half of our group to try and get them on it. And in that moment, I just went catatonic. Or Kite-atonic. Or whatever you want to call it. For minutes. And then, complete astonishment. 

Doug Gochfeld's original image of the juvenile Hook-billed Kites

After they had disappeared out of sight and high-fives were traded all the way around, I quickly texted Martin and Marci, two of the people who had been along with me every agonizing step of the way. And then a funny thing happened. My phone exploded. Not literally, but figuratively. Congratulatory texts began rolling in. The nemesis had been vanquished. The Bird That Shall Not Be Named had revealed itself to me. To all of us. I was in disbelief.

Phone edit and crop of Doug's original photo

That afternoon, I was greeted with hugs and more high-fives upon returning to the convention center. The intensity of it all made me feel a bit like a star player being carried off the field after a glorious victory. To say I was flying higher than a kite is not only a bad pun, but also perfectly describes my heart and my head. It was almost too much for me to bear. Earlier I mentioned the agony and the ecstasy. After so much deep agony, the ecstasy on the other side was like none other. 

I now presume that everywhere I go, there will be Hook-billed Kites to be seen. Birding is funny that way. Sometimes it just takes one to start the landslide. Oh and yes, from that very moment and unto eternity, I can say those words without shudder or wince. For the record, when the birds disappeared out of sight, I took a deep breath, put my head down, and thanked them. These birds have no idea what they do to us, but that won’t stop me from being grateful for it. Even when they rip our hearts out of our chest and then mend them all back up in a nano-second.  

On Kings and Fowl Weather at The Biggest Week

The week had been beautiful. Unseasonably warm and with the exception of a few afternoon thunderstorms, relatively dry. I grew up on the south shore of Lake Erie and know well how fickle a month May can be, bouncing from days that feel more like November or December to afternoons that feel downright July-like. Just as the birds were, I was paying close attention to the weather. So when I awoke to a rainy Friday morning, I prepared myself to lead a field trip for which I was nearly certain most of the participants would not show. 

Oh, how I love being wrong!

Ray Stewart and I had a van full of folks, all of our registered participants in fact, whose spirits had not been dampened by the wet morning. I worked to pump myself up, as much as the participants, by letting them in on a little secret; that birding in the rain was fun and is often even more productive than birding in fair weather.

I thought back to a particularly wet Big Day Van trip that I led at the previous Biggest Week in American Birding; a day that will live in my memory for a long time. I met new friends that day and saw a King Rail, which for me was a new bird. As a guide, rabid birder, and professional ornithologist, lifers don’t happen every day.

As Ray and I worked to keep our humors up, off we went to a magical land of Private Marshes.

When Rob and Lester sent me my leader schedule a few weeks before the festival was to begin, I was delighted to see that I was slated to lead a Private Marshes trip. This very special trip allows participants to enter an extremely prestigious piece of private land, the renowned Winous Point Shooting Club. While many individuals might at first not understand the connection between shooting birds for sport and bird and habitat conservation, when one dives deeper into the subject they may find volumes written on conservation dollars raised by hunters and sportspersons. Winous Point Shooting Club is the oldest shooting club still in operation in the United States, dating back to its founding in 1856. Throughout its history, Winous Point has been on the cutting edge of wetland research and conservation efforts (for more info on the history of the club and its associated marsh conservancy, preview this epic volume at: https://books.google.com/books?id=8e4lAAAAQBAJ&printsec=frontcover#v=onepage&q&f=false).

As a private hunt club, access is extremely limited. One must be either a member (of which there are fewer than thirty), a guest of a member, a researcher, or one of the lucky few individuals that is granted access (usually as a member of a group) for educational purposes. When I was pursuing my undergraduate degree in Wildlife Management at The Ohio State University, I was fortunate to spend a weekend camping at Winous Point, exploring its marshes. I saw my first Bald Eagle there. To say I was eager to get back would have been a major understatement.

The intermittent rain coupled with the wind made birding difficult. It seemed each time we would all pile out of the van, a steady sprinkling would begin and birding from inside of the van was a near impossibility with the number of bodies inside. We were doing the best we could and enjoyed the birds we got to see, but activity was low and by mid-morning our enthusiasm was beginning to slip.

We were finishing loading up the van when a Utility Vehicle with two young men pulled up on the dike road behind us. Presuming they may be researchers, I went to chat them up. Sure enough, they were checking the rail traps. I had caught wind of the project through a conversation with another guide who had led the same trip just a few days before. Their lucky group had the chance to ogle a King Rail up close and personal. Knowing how rare King Rail is in Ohio, state listed as endangered, in fact, I figured we wouldn’t be that lucky, but hoped that perhaps the crew might catch a Virginia Rail or Sora that our group could see. Their plan was to take any bird they might catch back to the headquarters to put a transmitter on it, for tracking movement and locations, band it, and take measurements before returning it to the location where it was captured. They agreed to hold on to anything they caught for us to see, I agreed that we would be back at the headquarters around the time they were to return from checking the traps, and off they went.

A short while later, I saw their UV ahead of us on the dike road. The two men were walking back from the marsh and I noticed the lead gentleman was carrying a bag. A big bag. I was like popcorn in the passenger seat of the van, completely giddy. I had a really, really good feeling about what was inside that bag. There was no tempering my excitement and I notified everyone in the van that they had caught a bird for us to see!

We pulled up behind them and scampered out of the van as they walked back up to the top of the dike. Yep. Sure enough. The King of all Rails was in the bag. My unbridled enthusiasm compelled me to snap a few pictures of the bird in the bag with the beautiful marsh from where the King Rail came in the background. The photo captures the dreariness of the day, but at that moment, a sun was shining in my heart and I was on could nine in my head. 

Another bander friend of mine once said “Seeing a new bird in-the-hand is like getting a lifer all over again.”

We spent the next short while birding the remainder of the marsh but all I could think of was the King Rail that would be awaiting our return. We picked up a few new species for the day and headed back to talk with the researchers and John Simpson, the Director of the Winous Point Marsh Conservancy, which oversees the management of the land. John was kind enough to not only show the bird to us and discuss their rail research project, but he also later took us into the main lodge and discussed the history of Winous Point Shooting Club and its associated Marsh Conservancy. We poured over the maps and probably would have happily asked him questions for another several hours, but as the weather started to break, our anything but bleak day was drawing to a close. 

 

A close-up of the Elvis of water chickens.

The richly-colored and boldly-patterned flank of the beautiful King Rail.

Another close-up, because, yeah.

This lightweight satellite transmitter will help the researchers track the locations and movements of this individual, helping to shed light on the little-known ecology of this endangered species of the Lake Erie marshes area.

While our species day list was kept below average due to the weather conditions, being lucky enough to view a King Rail, in-the-hand was something that certainly does not happen on just any birding trip. In fact, I believe this is only the fourth King Rail transmittered since the project began. Combine this with the opportunity to spend time at an exclusive hunting and conservancy property, having the chance to speak with its director about the history and research goals of the organization, and being granted the permission to walk through the lodge and inspect the museum-quality artifacts, decoys, letters, photographs, etc., made this the absolute highlight to a week punctuated by one intensely positive experience after another.

I can’t say enough about The Biggest Week in American Birding. Visiting private parcels of land such as this, observing research in the works, and aiding conservation efforts with special fundraising events and programs (check out The Biggest Week webpage for more information on this: http://www.biggestweekinamericanbirding.com/) truly makes this festival one of the premier annual birding events in the US. The camaraderie and community associated with this festival is second to none. There is nowhere in the world I would rather be during the first two weeks of May! While the warblers draw folks to the area, sometimes royalty steals the show.  

And for me, it’s a chance to come home.

On that day, I was given a particularly special gift. I was able to revisit a place I spent time during a formative period in my career, when I was just starting to get my feet firmly planted as a wildlife biologist. Though my time there was incredibly brief, it was impactful. I was raised on the shore of the lake that feeds these wetlands, romped across the beaches and islands of the region as a young girl, and developed my interest in the natural world in this area. The Great Black Swamp served as my natal birding grounds, with this piece of property helping to pique the interest in birds and bird research which has morphed into my passion and my vocation. To return all these years later as an accomplished researcher, bird bander, wildlife biologist, and bird guide, was humbling and exciting and profoundly soul stirring.

Not soon to be forgotten.

To see a couple of cool maps associated with the transmitter locations of the marked King Rails, including the bird that was marked the day our group visited Winous Point, check out the Winous Point Facebook page at: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Winous-Point-Marsh/111584338881320.