2022 in Three Words: Part I

As I perused the internet on New Year’s Eve, I read many nostalgic and hopeful posts about the year soon to be behind us and the year ahead. The headline “2022 in Three Words” stuck with me and sent my thoughts spiraling into unsettling yet familiar contemplations  Three words: Death. Reflection. Regret. 

As 2022 was slipping away I eventually found my way into a tearful slumber with mixed emotions about leaving the year behind. It was the year I shared my last memories with my dad. The last year we shared in a Rio Grande Valley Bird chase. The last year we visited the National Butterfly Center together. But most gravely, the year I spent three days in a hospital room watching life slip from Dad’s feeble body following the removal of life support on the heels of a massive stroke…

Snowy Plover excursion with Dad, La Sal del Rey, Hidalgo Co, TX 5Feb2022

This whole passage-of-time-business associated with the New Year seems rather arbitrary and symbolic…a symbol system to measure time by seconds, minutes, hours, days, years, centuries and so on. We mark the ending and beginning. And then what?

I woke in 2023 feeling just as sad as 2022, just as unsettled and just as haunted as the day before.

Rewind to early July…

After a couple months of my dad insisting he was driving north this year to Michigan with or without my help, I agreed to fly to Texas to drive my mom and him from the Lower Rio Grande Valley to Wisconsin and then onward to “the Cabin” in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. I had hoped my parents would not insist on returning to their prior Michigan home that was now owned by my cruel sister. But dad had his sights on returning. 

I had closed the door on that place and its memories during the Fall of 2021 after a series of family breakdowns and the maltreatment of my parents surrounding their agreement with my sister about them living there during the summer months. Yet here we were poised in July to return. (REGRET).

July 13th we arrived at “the Cabin” with little light remaining to open up. A disagreement about the plan of action leading up to our arriving resulted in Dad exclaiming, “Why are you being such a bitch?!” because I went against his suggestion for the order of our stops in town. My decision was logical, avoided back-tracking and the wasting of precious daylight. Dad had insisted on a different order. Calling me a bitch was highly uncharacteristic for him. My 20/20 hindsight tells me now this episode was one of the many foreshadowing events leading to his death. Clues. Warning signs I missed. (REFLECTION. REGRET).

Dad and I spent the following day, July 14,  getting the water and generator running. This day, as many others during the month of July, was shadowed by Dad perseverating on his grievances surrounding how my sister and her spouse had treated him the preceding fall. Coming back to the cabin bore those wounds re-opened. As much as I wanted for this migration of sorts to be a happy time for my parents, the family drama of 2021 painted everything black…

Dad’s hand turning on the water

July 15th, Peter, my nephews and their mother arrived for a long weekend spent enjoying the treasures of the Pike Lake cabin and the nearby southeast shore of Lake Superior. In other words, we indulged in what had been for most of my life, MY HEART. The boreal forests and bogs had been my playground since I was preteen. They were my first love if ever there was one…

During our long weekend, Dad had a fallen by the boathouse. Though not too severe, Dad’s face was bleeding from an abrasion. It was enough to warrant a break from working and attention to his injuries. However, he resisted my help to gain his footing and insisted on trying to continue tinkering in the boathouse. I begged through tears for him stop, “Stop! Please stop. You’re bleeding.” He finally stopped and retreated to the cabin. He looked defeated. He appeared dejected. I could sense he felt like I was treating him like a child. This wasn’t the first struggle we had had in recent days. This was Dad’s fight to maintain his independence. It was also likely his struggle with cognitive decline brought on by what I now know were clots being thrown to his brain, clots that eventually occluded one of his cerebral arteries. HINDSIGHT. REGRET I did not do more, did not insist we go to the hospital to have him examined, did not nag him enough to take his blood thinner… He had been skipping doses, especially while we traveled from Texas to Michigan. I learned of this when I reminded him upon arrival in Wisconsin to take his medication. He informed then he had not taken anything since we left Texas! What?! I had backed off on nagging during our travels because he had spent the night before leaving Texas carefully setting up his medications. He also expressed being focused on taking his Warfarin because he needed to get his INR in range. Then why skip? When your blood was already dangerously thick, why skip? IF ONLY YOU DID NOT SKIP YOUR MEDS DAD. 

We finished our long weekend together with a trip to Vermilion Point. Dad immersed himself in his usual nature photography as did I. We lingered on the pristine beach along Lake Superior. The nephews played and swam with Uncle Peter. Mom and dad sat and picked around by the makeshift driftwood shelter. I searched the shore for agates. Life was good. 

Dad hiking back from Vermillion Beach July 2022

Back at Pike Lake, Dad enjoyed what would be his last time fishing off the dock with his grandsons. He also got in his last hugs with the kids, something I often encouraged. I keenly recall standing in the kitchen at the cabin encouraging the boys to hug Grandpa stating “We never know when our last time with Grandpa will be.”  I was often  mindful of this in recent years. I cherished every moment with my parents, especially my dad. In their advancing age and with Dad’s declining health, I often reminded myself just how FLEETING and FINAL any passing moment could be. I wish now I would have taken more photos of those final hugs. The memory for now is quite saliently etched in my brain: tender, loving and disarming to a Grandpa that had often become grumpy. I fear the day those memories fade…

Dad fishing with Kelby, July 2022

July 18, we departed back to Wisconsin…

Three days later I was amid a chase for my Wisconsin lifer Limpkin, closing in at approximately thirty minutes away when I got the call from my sister telling me Mom found Dad down by the boathouse frothing from the mouth. An ambulance was on the way. 

Limpkin, Racine Co, WI 21July22

I felt that all too familiar visceral response: my body was overcome with shaking chills in the heat of July. I had felt this when Dad had his massive heart attack and then again when my parents were hit by a drunk driver and rushed to the hospital, Dad with an open head injury. Adrenaline. Sinking. Shock. This time, this news, I knew DAD WAS GONE. The day I had feared the most was upon me. 

I was seven hours away from Dad, on the tail end of a two hour rare bird chase. Dad’s outcome was out of my control, so I went for the Limpkin. The memory of the Limpkin and the birders I encountered feels surreal. REFLECTION… I was detached from the bird, from the birder’s, from the fate ahead of me. I went. I saw the Limpkin. I made small talk. I made superficially yet personally revealing talk about my dad. I left the Limpkin. I drove two hours back home, packed my bags and headed back north to Pike Lake having just left there a few days prior.

I drove seven hours in the darkness arriving in the wee hours of Friday morning at the small rural hospital, Helen Newberry Joy. I saw Dad, intubated, lifeless. He had thrown massive clots to his brain. Our options were to transfer him to Marquette for further care or remove life support. We decided the latter knowing Dad never wanted to live out his days incapacitated and confined to a nursing home. We were assured the stroke was severe despite despite no MRI. One of the CAT scans had shown extensive clotting occluding one of arteries feeding the brain. 

I spent that night alone at Pike Lake, in that cabin filled with SO MANY MEMORIES. MY HEART. Once MY HOME. Mom was staying with a neighbor. I remained awake into the early morning. Intoxicated. Trying to numb the indelible pain. 

Mom and I returned to the hospital the next morning to remove life support. We said what we thought would be our final goodbyes to my lifeless, sedated dad. The respiratory therapist removed life support. I don’t know why I expected dad to immediately go, but I did. I work in healthcare and should have known better. The breathing tube was removed and dad persevered. In fact, with simple nasal cannula oxygen support, he rallied and fizzled for a heart wrenching two and half days. Friday, Saturday, Sunday, mom and I sat with Dad, feeling and watching his every coarse and progressively more congested breath. I swabbed his mouth. He suckled the toothette, even responded with reflexive swallows. Saturday, he showed additional reflexive responses in his feet and toes. His feet were always sensitive, so he recoiled and wiggled them when I stroked the bottoms. Was he rallying? Did we make the wrong call? Doubt set in, a doubt I have gone over again and again in my head since his death…But he never roused to talk to us. And when they moved him, he showed complete lack of head and trunk control. His head flopped atop his body when moving him. 

Saturday evening, July 23rd, my sister and nephew, dad’s eldest of three grandsons arrived. We grieved and hugged at Dad’s bedside. I continued to sit at Dad’s side holding his hand, checking his pulse, watching him breathe. Oddly, my sister captured a photo of this on her phone. WHY? WHY WOULD ANYONE WANT TO REMEMBER SUCH A MORBIDLY HAUNTING EXPERIENCE?! She shared this photo with Mom. So to this day, when I am helping Mom with her phone, I stumble upon a memory of Dad I would much prefer to forget…

When we left Dad Saturday night. I hugged dad and told him in his ear that we would be back tomorrow. Colleen and Tyler insisted Dad nodded in acknowledgment. I was buried in Dad’s neck but doubt he had the strength or control to produce such a response…or perhaps it was his last hurrah…It would feel comforting to know Dad heard and felt my final “I love yous.” I DO NOT FEEL COMFORTED.

Sunday, July 24th, we gathered around at Dad’s bedside late morning. My brother and his family were feverishly racing to get to Dad’s bedside before he passed. Dad’s breathing had deteriorated. It was more shallow, more coarse than the prior day. He was hot to the touch coming in at a temperature of 105.1 F. I resumed my perch next to him, holding his hand, swabbing his mouth. I had even brought frozen Coke to swab his oral cavity. Coke was his favorite. He drank this in lieu of water… I abandoned the plan to give him Coke upon realizing he did not appear to be swallowing. I played Buddy Holly radio on Pandora for Dad. We visited with each other around Dad’s failing body. We giggled while reminiscing about various family events…Expected yet unexpectedly, among the din of music and laughter, Dad’s breathing went silent…and so did we. Smiles left our faces. Then tears, lots of tears in a week long marathon of tears. DEATH was upon us. 

My brother and his wife arrived an hour or so later with their 5 and 9 year old boys in tow. This was our family’s visitation. There would be no embalming, no other gatherings around a corpse that barely resembled our lost loved one. This was it. No embellishments. My curious nephew inquired if Grandpa was sleeping. Would he wake up? “No, honey, he’s not going to wake up. He’s dead.” 

RIP Pink Fairy

 One more look back at 2021...

On November 27th, Benjamin Leigh Douglas found an immature Ross's Gull at the confluence of the Mississippi and St. Croix Rivers along the Minnesota and Wisconsin border. 

Ross's Gull was the last of the holy grail North American bird species I wanted to see. It graces the back cover of America's 100 Most Wanted Bird Birds book I was given many years ago in my infancy of birding. Its fairy-like pink plumage and delicate features are tantalizing to many a birder. 

Opportunities to chase this species have come and gone on past occasions. The Red Rock Reservoir, Iowa bird in 2013 involved a hefty 10-hour round trip drive for a very distant look. I decided I would pass. 

But when the Ross's was found this past fall, it presented an opportunity for face-melting views as well as a shot at a world and Wisconsin state lifer. The travel was still a dandy at eight hours round trip. My fatigue stood as a barrier. However, I could not resist the exuberance I heard in the voices of my friends Tom and Aaron when they talked about seeing this bird. And then there was this familiar message from Tom, "You going tomorrow? Do it!!"

So I did. It was every bit as magical as I thought it would be. I first viewed it distantly from the Minnesota side where it was reported to be most reliable. My plan was see it first no matter what state it was in, then focus on the tic for Wisconsin. Shortly after I arrived in Minnesota, it was apparent it was seemingly favoring the Wisconsin side. Therefore, I quickly headed over to Prescott, Wisconsin to get better views. However, just as I arrived, I was told the Ross's had flown from the river...No worries as it was quickly refound close to where I parked, up the riverbank behind Geister Ink. 

Within minutes though, it left for Minnesota. I was definitely not going to play the game of driving back and forth across the river trying to view the bird. Instead, I staked out a spot on the Wisconsin side of the river waiting its return. 

Patience rewarded me. After two plus hours of watching the bird from afar, I was treated to breath-taking views as the bird swam toward me. 

Bliss. Pure gold. Dainty, frail, blush, beautiful...

Unfortunately, not unlike my last lifer arctic gull, an Ivory Gull at Canal Park in Duluth, Minnesota, this bird's health was compromised. Even more so than I suspected...

Ivory Gull, Canal Park, Duluth, St. Louis Co, MN 5Jan2016

Subtle behaviors hinted at compromise during the time I spent with the bird (the parking lot landing was a clue). I hoped I was wrong in my concern. But by the time I reached home that evening, word on "the socials" was that those who had followed this bird for multiple days believed its behavior had changed for the worse. By the following morning, reports of the bird appearing dead or near dead had surfaced and a hatched rescue plan spread across the birding community. 

Revive it? I would like to see what gull CPR looks like. 

Shortly after, a firsthand report confirmed the bird expired in transit to wildlife rehabilitation.

I instantly felt moral conflict in rejoicing at seeing this bird. Is it morally just to celebrate around a suffering creature that traveled far from its range to meet its demise?

Guilt and regret overshadowed my jubilance of the prior day...Another one bites the dust...

But the more I have reflected on this experience and the near certain death for most vagrant arctic gulls who travel afar to perish sometimes most obviously (the face-melting ones always do), other times more obscurely, the less ashamed I feel. Though these experiences feel utterly bittersweet, what better way to honor these creatures than with a glorious swan song that celebrates their existence and perhaps even sparks interest in birds and bird conservation in those less woke to the grandeur of Nature? 

I will close with this sentiment posted to the Minnesota Ornithological Union's listserv.

For those thinking about the recently deceased Ross’s Gull, I offer the following excerpt from “A Year on the Wing: Four Seasons in a Life with Birds” by Tim Dee, describing a vagrant in Europe:
The yellow-browed warbler I saw … had made a mistake, and it is probable that no amount of nurture on Fair Isle could truly rescue it. Vagrancy is a death sentence. Almost all of the rarities that arrive on the island (and almost all vagrants anywhere) will have the same fate. They are wonderful treasures from far away that we cannot keep and cannot save. There is very little evidence that vagrant birds reorient themselves and correct their journeys. It seems likely that the yellow-browed warbler, having gone southwest where it should have gone southeast, would continue this aberrant direction and fly on west out over an ocean that has no refuges, no green skirts, for thousands of miles. That would be the end of it. It would soon be homeless. I was watching a lost child at death’s door.
Perhaps somewhat morbid but sadly true. On the flip side, vagrancy is a naturally occurring pattern that sometimes has different results. Think of Cattle Egrets…
Good birding,
Andy Forbes, Dakota Co.

Rest in peace sweet pink fairy. You were a most delightful finale to 2021. 

When You Don't Know Me Anymore...

How's it gonna be when you don't know me anymore? 

Like this.

We've arrived.

Pike Lake, Luce Co, MI. The LAST day. 16Oct21 

The distance of time has been restorative. DISTANCE. PERSPECTIVE. Yes, there is power and a resolute calm in perspective. It is almost everything. 

Life did not afford me the time to add much to this archive for 2021 and that is simply fine. 

Though I set out each year intent to at least document "my" spring migration, the pinnacle moments of May, I failed with this in 2021. 

White-eyed Vireo that visited my yard 26May2021

Spring migration 2021 was fairly mediocre. My photography of the event was equally on par. The odd patterns and scarcity of birds left me with a sense of "I better hold onto these moments while I can." The fate of so much of the grandeur in Nature seems to be hanging on by a thread. 

Hoot Owl Hollow, Pike Lake, MI 16Oct21 The LAST day

Summer 2021 through this fall was mired in a long goodbye to the home of my heart: our family property in the eastern U.P. near the southeastern shore of Lake Superior, the end to a love affair that began in 1984.

Pike Lake, Luce Co, MI. Evidence of the Duck Lake Fire of 2012

Like cancer, toxic family drama destroyed this place that had long encapsulated my heart. 

Whitefish Point, Chippewa Co, MI August 2019 

And so it began, August through October, the long good-bye, the grieving, the death of my 37-year relationship with the "Yoop." 

Pike Lake Area, "After the Fire", 28Oct2013

I wake some mornings dreaming of that place, 

Grand Marais, MI Sept2020

...left with the wonder of how's it going to be when I no longer know the landscape.

"Mary's Bog" filled with Grass Pink Orchid, Luce Co, MI July2014

When I can no longer intuitively navigate the myriad of two-tracks through the bogs and forests...

Spruce Grouse, Farm Truck Rd, Chippewa Co, MI
They used to be regular along this road up until about 3-4 years ago. :(

When that remote landscape few know as intimately as someone who has explored its bounty for decades becomes a foreign land.

Lake Superior's south shore, somewhere off the beaten path, July2019

Goodbye my love. This loss hurts deeper than most. 

Whitefish Point, Chippewa Co, MI Aug 2019

Black-throated Blue Warbler, Mission Hill, Chippewa Co, MI 30May15
My favorite place to observe this species

Through the turmoil of family divisions, my struggle to demand my sibling treat my parents who brought us to that land with the dignity they deserve, through the emotional roller coaster of permanently relocating my parents from the Canadian border to the Mexican border, I found sweet RESPITE in a twenty-fucking-minute diversion to observe a Harris's Sparrow in my birding patch during my brief stop back in Madison. Respite among months of setting my wishes aside for the survival of my parents.

Harris's Sparrow, Eagle Heights Gardens, Madison, WI 18Oct21

A small chase for a Harris's Sparrow. Big silver-linings. Hold onto to these moments while you can. This was a moment that buoyed me amidst life's drowning circumstances.

While it would have been delightful to spend more time with the Harris's Sparrow, my parents and driving them to Texas that day was calling...

And so was Covid-19, lurking with us from Michigan to Texas. Dad became symptomatic, tested positive and I became the caregiver during the week that followed. Unpacking the U-haul trailer, delivering medications and breathing treatments, cooking, disinfecting, making an impulsive family trip to get monoclonal antibodies for the three of us and living in an N95 mask. This was supposed to be my mask-free time! Instead it was a Texas sweaty masked nightmare!

Though my time in Texas did not turn out how I imagined, I emerged feeling like some super immune dynamo. Miraculously mom and I never tested positive nor exhibited symptoms despite being ultra-exposed. 

Gulf Fritillary in my parent's yard, Hidalgo Co, TX Oct 2021

Covid thwarted my solid shot at an ABA lifer American Flamingo. I missed birding and butterflying some of my favorite Lower Rio Grande Valley haunts. That was the original plan, drive the parents to Texas and spend an additional week on various nature forays. It's all good though. I found a few hours to visit the National Butterfly Center down the road and I had several incidental observations of birds and butterflies from my parent's yard. I also worked on adding plants and making the yard more bird and butterfly friendly between my Covid caregiver duties.

Rufous/Allen's Hummingbird, parent's yard, Hidalgo Co, TX Oct 2021

Most importantly, I showed up for my parents, for my dad, just like he did at my lowest moment during my mid-twenties. I had to show up for them. It is what decency and dignity demands.

Long-tailed Skipper, National Butterfly Center, Hidalgo Co, TX Oct 2021

As we close out 2021, I finally feel I am emerging from the messy, heart-breaking and yet poignant past six months...stronger and certainly more independent. 

I'll take the raw tragedy and bliss of living over a still born existence of staring down a computer screen and acquiring maladaptive internet trolling behaviors any day. The calm that has followed the storm is pretty divine.

There is one choice for me: BE.HERE.NOW.

Worm-eating Warbler!

Yesterday's shift in winds out of the south brought a nice surge of migrants into southern Wisconsin. My Dane County eBird needs alerts exploded throughout the day. On our Dane County Notable Telegram chat channel an alert came out mid-morning for Worm-eating Warbler along with other goodies. The scenario was torture since I was mired on work the entire day. This Worm-eating would be both a patch and Dane County lifer. In addition, the first Golden-winged and Black-throated Blue warbler reports came in along with a White-eyed Vireo. All within my birding patch. 

Today I had the fortune of being off. So I set out mid-morning to try for the Worm-eating Warbler. I was not optimistic about re-finding the bird. Many had searched the scene yesterday and dipped. No early reports had surfaced that the bird was re-sighted. However upon arriving to Bill's Woods at the UW Lakeshore Preserve I noted the Ornithology Class intently observing birds and I overheard the leader mention Worm-eating Warbler. I weakly assumed he might have been referencing yesterday's bird since no one in the area appeared all that excited. I decided to circle back around to where the group was which is when Cynthia Carlson informed me that the leader had re-found the Worm-eating. Yes! There was hope. Myself and other birders search the knoll near the base of Picnic Point trying to sight the bird. Eventually Trudy Carlson located it and quickly got me on it.

It doesn't get any better than that. 

The bird was mostly skulking and busily foraging among the leaf litter. It was moving fast. 

So I was downright thrilled that it popped out in the open where Cynthia and I were ready to capture the moment! 

Pure bliss!

XOXO

    ~BirdBitch

Willets!

 Willet? Why yes, it will.

Yesterday was slow on the passerine front. 

...though any birding spent in the company of a Carolina Wren is hardly banal

Distracted by chores in the yard, I did not get out birding until late morning. No worries since I believe I did not miss much during the morning rush of birds. After a slow birding and quick stop at a section of the Pheasant Branch creek corridor, I stopped by the Black Earth Creek headwaters where hundreds of Bonaparte's Gulls continued but the few common shorebirds I had seen on Saturday had moved on. The situation was setting up to be a slow day for birds all around. Until I arrived at Shovelers Sink...

I set up my scope pointed north to where the majority of shorebirds congregate. Bam! Large wading shorebirds. Cryptically colored.

But splendidly brilliant! Especially when they spread their wings!

WILLETS!

I missed this bird entirely for Wisconsin in 2020, so finding TWENTY-SEVEN at Shovelers Sink was damn thrilling! 

The best birds are those unexpectedly encountered. WILLETS. Zen.

XOXO~

BirdBitch.

Personal Phenology, Early Spring 2021

Since the latter part of March I have been keeping a running log of natural events I recurrently attune to each spring. In the past my sense of seasonal timing has been vague at best. In my opinion "vague" feels like the more fluid and organic manner to experience the natural world. However for whatever reason, this year I have decided to assign increased definition to my seasonal experiences. I muse at why my brain is opting for this increased compartmentalizing. Fill the slots. Categorize. List. I suppose building a foundation of constants and comparing differences across time possesses an element of intrigue...it often has for me. Now it shall with more clarity.

So here is my personal phenology as I have laid witness to thus far this spring.

I will start with the best rush of Spring to date, yesterday morning! Behold Louisiana Waterthrush!

April 12th. Right on schedule. Often a tough bird to get in my patch despite a small number being known to visit the creek corridor of Pheasant Branch Conservancy most years in early spring.

I had a small window of time to find this species this year before family obligations hijack my April birding. So I was thrilled to find this species yesterday! Such pure gold and an immensely satisfying high. Even better is sharing the wealth with other birders. At least a few others were able to relocate this bird yesterday and this morning.

Now to rewind to the third week of March for a chronology of the little nuggets I eagerly await each year...

March 19

• FOY implosion of my Swarovisions (DID NOT EAGERLY AWAIT THIS. But it would not be spring without some disaster for me be it an accident, injury or significant illness). The diopter/focus wheel came apart after years of fits with the darn thing. Right before spring migration. Could not be worse timing with any repair by Swarovski taking a minimum of two months. Enter sweet, generous Adrian with my choice of Zeiss Victory binoculars to use. Even better, I get to keep the pair I like best as my back-up binoculars!

March 21 

• Final ice went out in Lake Mendota
• First Mourning Cloak of the year

Mourning Cloak

March 22 

• First day of Spring coincided with first chipmunk in the yard
• Last of season Northern Shrike horking up a pellet at Nine Springs

Northern Shrike, Nine Springs Natural Area

March 23

• FOY (first of the year) Bonaparte's Gull

Bonaparte's Gulls, Stricker's Pond

March 25

• FOY (First of year) yard Brown Creeper

March 29 

• First of season (FOS) Carolina Wren

Carolina Wren, Pheasant Branch Conservancy

April 1

• FOY yard Chipping Sparrow. Prior to this year we often had one over-winter in the yard/neighborhood

April 2

• First sizable push of Golden-crowned kinglets

Golden-crowned Kinglet, Pheasant Branch Conservancy 

April 2

• Bloodroot blooming

Bloodroot, Pheasant Branch Conservancy

• Virginia Bluebells barely blooming

Virginia Bluebells, Pheasant Branch Conservancy 

April 4 

• First tiger beetles of the year: 30+ Bronzed at Pheasant Branch Conservancy (PBC) Creek Corridor and a single Six-spotted also spotted at PBC. My friend Steve had texted on March 30 that Bronzed and Twelve-spotted were out by his place in Stoughton. Twelve-spotted is the last of the Wisconsin tiger beetles I still need for my life list. There never seems enough time for all I wish to conquer during spring! 

Bronzed Tiger Beetle, Pheasant Branch Conservancy

• Multiple Mourning Cloaks and Cabbage white butterflies seen at Pheasant Branch and Graber Pond. Generally a notable spike observed in insects on this warm sunny day.

April 5 

• First of year shorebird other than Killdeer, a Pectoral Sandpiper

April 6 

• Second of the year shorebird other than Killdeer, an early Least Sandpiper
• FOY Yellow-rumped Warbler and Ruby-crowned Kinglet.

Least Sandpiper (left) with Pectoral Sandpiper (right).
Subzero Parkway Ponds, Dane Co, WI 6April21

• FOS singing Winter Wren

Winter Wren, Pheasant Branch Conservancy 

April 7

• FOY yard Field Sparrow

April 8

• FOY singing Yellow-rumped Warblers 
• Trout Lily and Dutchmen's Breeches starting to bloom
• The invasive Japanese Knotweed was growing new shoots at Pheasant Branch. The patch in our yard has not come back. I am hoping we effectively eradicated it last fall.

Yellow-rumped Warbler, Pheasant Branch Conservancy 

April 11 

• FOY Eastern Bluebird (WTF?!). This is LATE for me. Many had this species much earlier this spring. However others noted this species was late to arrive on territory by multiple weeks.

Eastern Bluebird, Pope Farm Conservancy

April 12

• Second warbler species of the year, a patch Louisiana Waterthrush!

Louisiana Waterthrush, Pheasant Branch Conservancy

• Trout lily in full bloom on south facing slopes

Trout Lily, Pheasant Branch Conservancy

Side notes: 

My yard black-capped chickadees having been investigating the nest boxes more heavily in the last week.

Pine siskins are collecting nesting material in the yard. We are down to a fairly consistent six seen most days. 

It looms large that I dipped on Vesper Sparrow in my patch last year. I have birded a few spots both roadside as well as a decent foot effort put in at Pope Farm without success. With a pending suspension of my birding efforts, I am concerned I will possibly miss Vesper Sparrow again this year.  

Though I had Pine Warblers in spades last year, I am feeling angst I could miss this species since I will be out of state during what my "vague sense of timing" considers to be their peak migration...However the more I think about it, I should have time to find this species. 

Beer-thirty is rarely conducive to early birding. Will I ever get out birding before eight this spring?