The Online Alaska
Pioneer Press
Pioneer Press
Stragglers
By Robin Song
PIONEER PRESS COLUMNIST
When fall arrives, we expect the yearly
migration of birds to begin. It’s a fact
of Nature, like leaves dying and falling
from the trees. For me, it’s a bitter-
sweet time of year. While I love
watching large flocks of birds winging
overhead, I also don’t want to see
them go. The Northland seems quieter
and perhaps lonelier, without them here.
I especially miss the songbirds. All
spring and summer I listen to their
calls, repeating to myself their names,
so I won’t forget; ...”dark-eyed junco...
robin...yellow-rumped warbler...alder
flycatcher...violet-green swallow...
ruby-crowned kinglet...Lincoln’s
sparrow...snipe...” etc. I thrill to the
sight of a Harlan hawk circling in a
clear blue sky, and sandhill cranes-dots
against a cumulus cloud. On one
summer lake I watch a pair of
phalaropes paddling in circles as they
search for food, ducks with strings of
babies bobbing behind, grebes diving
for fish, a loon floating out over deep
water, and a pair of Trumpeter swans
preening on a grassy island. A pair of
ravens chase each other over the
marsh as a kingfisher flashes by, and
the surrounding forest is a cacophony
of songbird calls. All these birds are
here because of the bounty of food and
the availability of nesting territory.
As summer begins to wane, the
fledglings of the year are quickly
learning to be on their own. They are
beginning to bulk up for the coming
migration. They’ll add weight to their
thighs, breasts and bellies — as much
as their bodies can store and yet have
their wings manage to lift them into the
air. It’s a delicate balance.
Birds are magnificent specimens of
instinct. In some species the parents
teach their young everything they need
to know-even migrating in family units,
showing their youngsters the age-old
migratory routes hard-wired in their
brains.
But some species do everything by
instinct. Once the young fledge, they’
re on their own. The parents go off to
new areas to begin getting ready for
migration. They young must learn how
to hunt and what to eat, on their own.
They learn by trial and error, also
guided by strong instincts. They learn
which foods taste bitter, which are
edible. Patterns on certain plants and
insects tell the birds which ones are
poisonous. I can tell which birds are
juveniles, for they investigate
everything. I stand under a tree and
they come close to me, hopping from
limb to twig to peer at me. Curiosity
satisfied, they are off again to
investigate something else in their
universe.
What leaves me in awe is how a young
bird, hatched in a nest somewhere in
Alaska, will be able to migrate a few
weeks later. If it’s a species where its
parents separate from it soon after it
fledges, then it will somehow figure
out its migratory route purely by
instinct. It will take off one day, from
inner promptings due to clues in
weather patterns and the length of
sunlight. It will rely on its DNA
programming to guide it over vast
terrain to its wintering grounds. This
little bird will negotiate weather,
predators, and man-made obstacles.
One day it will arrive somewhere —
hundreds, even thousands of miles
from where it hatched — and its
instincts will tell it to stop and stay.
Then there are the birds who go
against their instincts — the ones who
stay in the northland far longer than
their brethren, some even spending the
winter here, even though this is not
where they’re supposed to be.
A few winters ago a Gold-Crowned
sparrow spent the winter in the barn at
Birch Creek Ranch. We ground up
sunflower seeds and added it to a wild
bird mix and I took it out to the little
bird each day. It seemed to enjoy Jody
the mare as its winter companion.
Come February and the lengthening
daylight, it vanished one day — maybe
to get a jump on establishing a nesting
territory before the migrants returned.
This year, with the snow arriving
early, most of the songbirds also
departed a little early. But a few hung
around. In mid-October, with some
eight inches snow already on the
ground, I watched three juncos
hopping about on the snow, searching
for tree seeds. That same day I spotted
a Fox sparrow in a nearby spruce and
I waited patiently until the shy bird
finally dropped to the snow in front of
me, affording a nice photo. The next
day all four were gone.
A pair of adult robins plied the May
Day tree, by the cabin, for berries.
When they had eaten all the easy-to-
reach berries, they began acrobatics to
reach for the rest on twigs too slim to
bear the robins’ weight. They
stretched down to reach berries below
them, and they hovered like giant
hummingbirds to snatch berries from
the ends of branches. When every last
berry was gone, the birds vanished. To
my surprise, about 10 days later I
spotted a robin in the forest by the
cabin, eating high-bush cranberries.
Will the robin stay? Time will tell.
What prompts these stragglers to stay?
What overpowers their instinct to
migrate? When the temperature drops
and the snow deepens, does something
tell them it’s more dangerous to risk a
migration flight than to spend the
winter here — far from their normal
wintering grounds? Perhaps the birds
who stay later than others of their kind
haven’t put on enough weight to
migrate. Maybe they need those few
extra weeks of eating berries, seeds
and insects not yet gone to hibernation,
to help them add the weight they need
for their long flight. Maybe the ones
who decide to winter here didn’t get to
the weight they needed and resigned
themselves to toughing it out here.
How do these birds get through the
deep cold and the long hours of
darkness when they weren’t designed
to do so? A lucky few find feeders
filled through the winter. I have read
reports of robins, ducks, geese, and a
few songbirds wintering-over in
Anchorage, where the winter is a bit
milder than up in our area. And I’ve
heard of robins being seen in Talkeetna
as late as December.
There seems to be more questions than
answers, regarding the birds who stay
late, each fall. Only they know why,
leaving us humans to speculate.
This winter, for the first time in many
years, there’s a female nuthatch
coming to my feeders. While I have
fed many a nuthatch over the winter in
other areas, for some reason they do
not stay past summer out at Birch
Creek Ranch. I hope this girl decides
to stay.
I watch her caching seeds in the trees
and I am almost certain she has made
her choice. Her bright “beep-beep-
beep” is cheerful — distinct amongst
the usual calls of the other winter
birds. She’s animated and busy, only
stopping for a brief instant to regard
me as I stand poised with the camera,
then she’s off to the forest with her
seed.
I haven’t gotten many photos of her
yet, but winter has just begun. She’ll
find plenty of food here to help her
through the cold months ahead. I’m
happy to put the seeds out for her, just
for the privilege of watching her.
Straggler or winter resident, I’m
grateful she’s staying this winter.
By Robin Song
PIONEER PRESS COLUMNIST
When fall arrives, we expect the yearly
migration of birds to begin. It’s a fact
of Nature, like leaves dying and falling
from the trees. For me, it’s a bitter-
sweet time of year. While I love
watching large flocks of birds winging
overhead, I also don’t want to see
them go. The Northland seems quieter
and perhaps lonelier, without them here.
I especially miss the songbirds. All
spring and summer I listen to their
calls, repeating to myself their names,
so I won’t forget; ...”dark-eyed junco...
robin...yellow-rumped warbler...alder
flycatcher...violet-green swallow...
ruby-crowned kinglet...Lincoln’s
sparrow...snipe...” etc. I thrill to the
sight of a Harlan hawk circling in a
clear blue sky, and sandhill cranes-dots
against a cumulus cloud. On one
summer lake I watch a pair of
phalaropes paddling in circles as they
search for food, ducks with strings of
babies bobbing behind, grebes diving
for fish, a loon floating out over deep
water, and a pair of Trumpeter swans
preening on a grassy island. A pair of
ravens chase each other over the
marsh as a kingfisher flashes by, and
the surrounding forest is a cacophony
of songbird calls. All these birds are
here because of the bounty of food and
the availability of nesting territory.
As summer begins to wane, the
fledglings of the year are quickly
learning to be on their own. They are
beginning to bulk up for the coming
migration. They’ll add weight to their
thighs, breasts and bellies — as much
as their bodies can store and yet have
their wings manage to lift them into the
air. It’s a delicate balance.
Birds are magnificent specimens of
instinct. In some species the parents
teach their young everything they need
to know-even migrating in family units,
showing their youngsters the age-old
migratory routes hard-wired in their
brains.
But some species do everything by
instinct. Once the young fledge, they’
re on their own. The parents go off to
new areas to begin getting ready for
migration. They young must learn how
to hunt and what to eat, on their own.
They learn by trial and error, also
guided by strong instincts. They learn
which foods taste bitter, which are
edible. Patterns on certain plants and
insects tell the birds which ones are
poisonous. I can tell which birds are
juveniles, for they investigate
everything. I stand under a tree and
they come close to me, hopping from
limb to twig to peer at me. Curiosity
satisfied, they are off again to
investigate something else in their
universe.
What leaves me in awe is how a young
bird, hatched in a nest somewhere in
Alaska, will be able to migrate a few
weeks later. If it’s a species where its
parents separate from it soon after it
fledges, then it will somehow figure
out its migratory route purely by
instinct. It will take off one day, from
inner promptings due to clues in
weather patterns and the length of
sunlight. It will rely on its DNA
programming to guide it over vast
terrain to its wintering grounds. This
little bird will negotiate weather,
predators, and man-made obstacles.
One day it will arrive somewhere —
hundreds, even thousands of miles
from where it hatched — and its
instincts will tell it to stop and stay.
Then there are the birds who go
against their instincts — the ones who
stay in the northland far longer than
their brethren, some even spending the
winter here, even though this is not
where they’re supposed to be.
A few winters ago a Gold-Crowned
sparrow spent the winter in the barn at
Birch Creek Ranch. We ground up
sunflower seeds and added it to a wild
bird mix and I took it out to the little
bird each day. It seemed to enjoy Jody
the mare as its winter companion.
Come February and the lengthening
daylight, it vanished one day — maybe
to get a jump on establishing a nesting
territory before the migrants returned.
This year, with the snow arriving
early, most of the songbirds also
departed a little early. But a few hung
around. In mid-October, with some
eight inches snow already on the
ground, I watched three juncos
hopping about on the snow, searching
for tree seeds. That same day I spotted
a Fox sparrow in a nearby spruce and
I waited patiently until the shy bird
finally dropped to the snow in front of
me, affording a nice photo. The next
day all four were gone.
A pair of adult robins plied the May
Day tree, by the cabin, for berries.
When they had eaten all the easy-to-
reach berries, they began acrobatics to
reach for the rest on twigs too slim to
bear the robins’ weight. They
stretched down to reach berries below
them, and they hovered like giant
hummingbirds to snatch berries from
the ends of branches. When every last
berry was gone, the birds vanished. To
my surprise, about 10 days later I
spotted a robin in the forest by the
cabin, eating high-bush cranberries.
Will the robin stay? Time will tell.
What prompts these stragglers to stay?
What overpowers their instinct to
migrate? When the temperature drops
and the snow deepens, does something
tell them it’s more dangerous to risk a
migration flight than to spend the
winter here — far from their normal
wintering grounds? Perhaps the birds
who stay later than others of their kind
haven’t put on enough weight to
migrate. Maybe they need those few
extra weeks of eating berries, seeds
and insects not yet gone to hibernation,
to help them add the weight they need
for their long flight. Maybe the ones
who decide to winter here didn’t get to
the weight they needed and resigned
themselves to toughing it out here.
How do these birds get through the
deep cold and the long hours of
darkness when they weren’t designed
to do so? A lucky few find feeders
filled through the winter. I have read
reports of robins, ducks, geese, and a
few songbirds wintering-over in
Anchorage, where the winter is a bit
milder than up in our area. And I’ve
heard of robins being seen in Talkeetna
as late as December.
There seems to be more questions than
answers, regarding the birds who stay
late, each fall. Only they know why,
leaving us humans to speculate.
This winter, for the first time in many
years, there’s a female nuthatch
coming to my feeders. While I have
fed many a nuthatch over the winter in
other areas, for some reason they do
not stay past summer out at Birch
Creek Ranch. I hope this girl decides
to stay.
I watch her caching seeds in the trees
and I am almost certain she has made
her choice. Her bright “beep-beep-
beep” is cheerful — distinct amongst
the usual calls of the other winter
birds. She’s animated and busy, only
stopping for a brief instant to regard
me as I stand poised with the camera,
then she’s off to the forest with her
seed.
I haven’t gotten many photos of her
yet, but winter has just begun. She’ll
find plenty of food here to help her
through the cold months ahead. I’m
happy to put the seeds out for her, just
for the privilege of watching her.
Straggler or winter resident, I’m
grateful she’s staying this winter.
The home base for your Alaskan Adventure in the heart of Talkeetna. 907-733-8500 E-mail us here P.O Box 353, Talkeetna, AK 99676 |
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Sightings
By Robin Song
PIONEER PRESS COLUMNIST
The cold snap of early January had me
staying in the cabin more than usual. But
caretaking a horse and two dogs got me
outside every day. Bundled up to do my
“horse chores” (hauling water, feed, and stall-
cleaning twice a day), I also took the dogs for
a walk and did my bird-watching during that
time. Just before sun-up the birds arrive at
my feeders, eager to start fueling their bodies
after the long hours in the cold and dark.
For chickadees, this is literally a life-saving
endeavor, for they do not have a crop to store
food and must bulk up during the short
winter daylight to prepare for the long night
of sleep when they will lose up to ten percent
of their body weight just in staying warm. I
have a birch branch (approx. two inches in
diameter) with large, round cavities down its
length into which I place suet mixed with un-
salted, un-sugared peanut butter. I bring the
branch in at night to thaw out. In the morning
I carry it back out and hang it from its hook
on a beam under the cabin’s porch roof. The
chickadees are so eager to get at the warm
food that often two or three birds will alight
on the branch while I am in the process of
hanging it up. At minus 10 or colder, the
peanut butter freezes hard in a couple of
hours, so in the afternoon I bring out the jar
of peanut butter and a spoon. One or two of
the little birds will be on the branch, working
on the frozen food. I can hold up the spoon
with a lump of peanut butter on it and the
birds will eat from it, their bright black eyes
watching me.
On top of the flat fuel tank next to the porch I
spread sunflower seeds on top of snow I
place on the tank. Back in the cabin I watch
through the front window as dozens of
redpolls and pine grosbeaks come flying in
from the nearby forest. The cabin faces
south, so when the sun is shining I spend
some time standing near the tank, taking
photos of the busy birds, before the cold
drives me back into the cabin to thaw out half-
frozen fingers. It’s worth the pain of cold-
nipped fingers to stand near the feeders
hanging from trees near the cabin, for the
sun, low in the south, produces a rose-gold
color that is enchanting on the birds’ feathers,
and the snow-laden tree branches.
Returning from a walk along the drive with
the dogs one afternoon in early January, I
spotted a large bird flying in towards the large
feeder hanging from a poplar just west of the
cabin. It came in fast, then twisted in the air
and plummeted to the snow. I knew it was
chasing a bird-probably a pine grosbeak. It
landed on the snow, wings spread out on
either side of its body.
Having missed its prey it gathered itself and
flew to a nearby low branch. The dogs hadn’t
seen the bird and I ushered them inside the
cabin and grabbed the camera. The bird was
still there when I got back outside and I
approached slowly. It was a juvenile goshawk
— the first one I had ever seen. (I’ve seen
several adults, over the years, and observed
the adult female when I worked at BTLC in
Anchorage last summer.) I managed to get a
couple of photos and a short video clip before
the bird flew off into the forest. It was a
beauty, with rows of brown pointed teardrop-
shaped feathers on its cream-colored front,
and white feathers in amongst its dark-brown
back feathers. At 23 inches in length and a
wing-span of three and a half to four feet, it’s
one of our largest Alaskan hawks.
Normally its diet is grouse, particularly the
ruffed grouse, so I assumed this youngster
was still perfecting its hunting technique and
was hungry. Probably the gathering of birds
near the feeder attracted the hawk and it tried
for an easy meal, but found its target was
skittish and fast. First winters are tough on
predatory birds, and not many of these
goshawks survive their first year.
I observed a juvenile sharp-shinned hawk
many times over last winter, as it returned
several times to stay in the trees near the
feeders, hoping for a meal. I always knew
when it was near, for the chickadees would
be sounding their alarm calls. They also yell
when they spot a shrike, and will dive at it
while the shrike is perched on or near the top
of a tree. This doesn’t seem to phase the little
predator, for it will stay in the area a long
time, hoping to nab a bird.
In mid-December I was photographing a
female pine grosbeak where she was hopping
about on the snow, picking gravel from
patches exposed after the truck had plowed
the drive. I saw her suddenly look up, then
spring into the air and fly fast into the forest
away from me. A second later an adult merlin
came flashing by my left side, hot in pursuit
of the grosbeak. I watched in awe as the
merlin whipped through the trees just a few
feet off the ground, twisting at top speed
through the maze of branches. I don’t know
if it caught its prey — she had a couple
seconds head-start and that may have been
enough.
Once in December, and again in early January
I heard the magpies and chickadees sounding
their alarms.
When a small gray, cream and brown bird
came zipping through the trees, I ran to get
the camera. Both times I was outside, but
hadn’t taken the camera, as I didn’t want to
risk it in the cold. But this was a juvenile
merlin, and when it landed in a tall birch near
the tractor shed, I knew this was a photo op.
During the first sighting, I took photos of the
bird sitting on a limb with the snow falling
heavily. I could barely see the bird through
the curtain of flakes. The next sighting was
on a clear, sunny afternoon. The merlin
landed in the same tree, then flew to a nearby
dead tree where it stayed awhile and preened.
Though the cold numbed my fingers, it was
thrilling to take photos of this handsome little
predator, lit up gold against the winter-blue
sky.
Looking up the predators in the Alaska bird
book, I read that neither the sharp-shinned
hawk nor the merlin are “supposed” to be in
Alaska in the winter. Both are marked on the
winter map as being in most of the lower 48
and into Central America. I guess some birds
just don’t read bird books. (I found these
maps in both the Sibley’s and the National
Geographic bird books.)
As I write, the grey jays and hairy
woodpeckers are also coming for their share
of the peanut butter and suet, and the magpies
are picking the last crumbs of dog food
kibbles from the snow where I feed them
each morning. The lone nuthatch is still
coming to get her sunflower seeds each day,
her cheery “beep-beep-beep” call distinct
amongst the chatter of the chickadees and
redpolls.
I hear the lyrical soft calls of the pine
grosbeaks where they are feeding. They are a
few feet away, but a world apart from me. I
am here inside, in two to three layers of
clothes, with the stove putting out life-saving
warmth. I look out the window to see a pair
of ravens flying by in the clear-blue sky, and
the myriad of birds at the feeders, eating as
much as they can before the coming darkness
forces them to roost. It’s a tough season, and
only the strong will survive.
Why the merlin and the sharp-shinned hawk
don’t migrate to warmer climes, where the
hunting/living is probably easier, is a mystery
to me.
I wish them all well, for their existance keeps
me motivated and energized through this time
of cold and dark. They are an amazing gift in
my life.
By Robin Song
PIONEER PRESS COLUMNIST
The cold snap of early January had me
staying in the cabin more than usual. But
caretaking a horse and two dogs got me
outside every day. Bundled up to do my
“horse chores” (hauling water, feed, and stall-
cleaning twice a day), I also took the dogs for
a walk and did my bird-watching during that
time. Just before sun-up the birds arrive at
my feeders, eager to start fueling their bodies
after the long hours in the cold and dark.
For chickadees, this is literally a life-saving
endeavor, for they do not have a crop to store
food and must bulk up during the short
winter daylight to prepare for the long night
of sleep when they will lose up to ten percent
of their body weight just in staying warm. I
have a birch branch (approx. two inches in
diameter) with large, round cavities down its
length into which I place suet mixed with un-
salted, un-sugared peanut butter. I bring the
branch in at night to thaw out. In the morning
I carry it back out and hang it from its hook
on a beam under the cabin’s porch roof. The
chickadees are so eager to get at the warm
food that often two or three birds will alight
on the branch while I am in the process of
hanging it up. At minus 10 or colder, the
peanut butter freezes hard in a couple of
hours, so in the afternoon I bring out the jar
of peanut butter and a spoon. One or two of
the little birds will be on the branch, working
on the frozen food. I can hold up the spoon
with a lump of peanut butter on it and the
birds will eat from it, their bright black eyes
watching me.
On top of the flat fuel tank next to the porch I
spread sunflower seeds on top of snow I
place on the tank. Back in the cabin I watch
through the front window as dozens of
redpolls and pine grosbeaks come flying in
from the nearby forest. The cabin faces
south, so when the sun is shining I spend
some time standing near the tank, taking
photos of the busy birds, before the cold
drives me back into the cabin to thaw out half-
frozen fingers. It’s worth the pain of cold-
nipped fingers to stand near the feeders
hanging from trees near the cabin, for the
sun, low in the south, produces a rose-gold
color that is enchanting on the birds’ feathers,
and the snow-laden tree branches.
Returning from a walk along the drive with
the dogs one afternoon in early January, I
spotted a large bird flying in towards the large
feeder hanging from a poplar just west of the
cabin. It came in fast, then twisted in the air
and plummeted to the snow. I knew it was
chasing a bird-probably a pine grosbeak. It
landed on the snow, wings spread out on
either side of its body.
Having missed its prey it gathered itself and
flew to a nearby low branch. The dogs hadn’t
seen the bird and I ushered them inside the
cabin and grabbed the camera. The bird was
still there when I got back outside and I
approached slowly. It was a juvenile goshawk
— the first one I had ever seen. (I’ve seen
several adults, over the years, and observed
the adult female when I worked at BTLC in
Anchorage last summer.) I managed to get a
couple of photos and a short video clip before
the bird flew off into the forest. It was a
beauty, with rows of brown pointed teardrop-
shaped feathers on its cream-colored front,
and white feathers in amongst its dark-brown
back feathers. At 23 inches in length and a
wing-span of three and a half to four feet, it’s
one of our largest Alaskan hawks.
Normally its diet is grouse, particularly the
ruffed grouse, so I assumed this youngster
was still perfecting its hunting technique and
was hungry. Probably the gathering of birds
near the feeder attracted the hawk and it tried
for an easy meal, but found its target was
skittish and fast. First winters are tough on
predatory birds, and not many of these
goshawks survive their first year.
I observed a juvenile sharp-shinned hawk
many times over last winter, as it returned
several times to stay in the trees near the
feeders, hoping for a meal. I always knew
when it was near, for the chickadees would
be sounding their alarm calls. They also yell
when they spot a shrike, and will dive at it
while the shrike is perched on or near the top
of a tree. This doesn’t seem to phase the little
predator, for it will stay in the area a long
time, hoping to nab a bird.
In mid-December I was photographing a
female pine grosbeak where she was hopping
about on the snow, picking gravel from
patches exposed after the truck had plowed
the drive. I saw her suddenly look up, then
spring into the air and fly fast into the forest
away from me. A second later an adult merlin
came flashing by my left side, hot in pursuit
of the grosbeak. I watched in awe as the
merlin whipped through the trees just a few
feet off the ground, twisting at top speed
through the maze of branches. I don’t know
if it caught its prey — she had a couple
seconds head-start and that may have been
enough.
Once in December, and again in early January
I heard the magpies and chickadees sounding
their alarms.
When a small gray, cream and brown bird
came zipping through the trees, I ran to get
the camera. Both times I was outside, but
hadn’t taken the camera, as I didn’t want to
risk it in the cold. But this was a juvenile
merlin, and when it landed in a tall birch near
the tractor shed, I knew this was a photo op.
During the first sighting, I took photos of the
bird sitting on a limb with the snow falling
heavily. I could barely see the bird through
the curtain of flakes. The next sighting was
on a clear, sunny afternoon. The merlin
landed in the same tree, then flew to a nearby
dead tree where it stayed awhile and preened.
Though the cold numbed my fingers, it was
thrilling to take photos of this handsome little
predator, lit up gold against the winter-blue
sky.
Looking up the predators in the Alaska bird
book, I read that neither the sharp-shinned
hawk nor the merlin are “supposed” to be in
Alaska in the winter. Both are marked on the
winter map as being in most of the lower 48
and into Central America. I guess some birds
just don’t read bird books. (I found these
maps in both the Sibley’s and the National
Geographic bird books.)
As I write, the grey jays and hairy
woodpeckers are also coming for their share
of the peanut butter and suet, and the magpies
are picking the last crumbs of dog food
kibbles from the snow where I feed them
each morning. The lone nuthatch is still
coming to get her sunflower seeds each day,
her cheery “beep-beep-beep” call distinct
amongst the chatter of the chickadees and
redpolls.
I hear the lyrical soft calls of the pine
grosbeaks where they are feeding. They are a
few feet away, but a world apart from me. I
am here inside, in two to three layers of
clothes, with the stove putting out life-saving
warmth. I look out the window to see a pair
of ravens flying by in the clear-blue sky, and
the myriad of birds at the feeders, eating as
much as they can before the coming darkness
forces them to roost. It’s a tough season, and
only the strong will survive.
Why the merlin and the sharp-shinned hawk
don’t migrate to warmer climes, where the
hunting/living is probably easier, is a mystery
to me.
I wish them all well, for their existance keeps
me motivated and energized through this time
of cold and dark. They are an amazing gift in
my life.