From the Notebook

 Today was one of those February days I treasure.

The sun cast a welcome warmth, and swaths of snow-bleached grass — still pressed tightly to the ground — revealed solid earth once more. Birdsong has begun again, announced by the cheerful notes of a Northern Cardinal singing from the tangles of a privet bush.

On my back, a backpack. Around my neck, binoculars. Cradled in my arms like an infant — my camera, “Cynthie.”

As I shuffled down the driveway at camp, I questioned whether I should tote the camera along. It’s heavy — manageable, but heavy. My bigger concern was the melting (yet still deep) snow, and the hazards hidden beneath it. A misstep could mean a fall.

I gave it barely a second of debate before deciding to bring it anyway. Experience has taught me that if I leave the camera behind, the woods will present something extraordinary — and I’ll walk home with clenched teeth, wishing I had known better.

Down the gravel lane I went, streams of fresh snowmelt snaking along the edges. In the distance, crows — and a single raven — disputed something only they understood. With each step on the wet gravel, Dark-eyed Juncos flushed into the air, flashing their white outer tail feathers against slate-colored bodies.

The trickle of meltwater added to February’s music. The faint “pew pew” of a Tufted Titmouse stitched itself into the soundscape and brought back thaws from years past in my ever-present mind.

At my friend Helen’s house, large patches of grass had already emerged. The plow had cleared snow there earlier in the winter, allowing the sun to work faster. I meandered the property, studying old farm buildings and scanning for birds. A Hermit Thrush fed quietly on berries. At my feet were the telltale tracks of what appeared to be an Eastern Cottontail. I had hoped for Snowshoe Hare — the hind feet were nearly four inches long — but the clear definition of each toe suggested otherwise.

I followed the tracks from thicket to thicket and realized the rabbit had made itself quite comfortable around the old buildings.

Three Eastern Bluebirds revealed themselves along the roofline, with another perched on an old wire. They dropped carefully to the exposed green and brown grass below, searching for food. Nearby, three American Robins did the same.

These were the first “hopping” robins of the year for me — a behavior I associate with spring. What good it did my spirit to see them bounding across sparse patches of green, probing for whatever sustenance they could find. With the soil still locked beneath ice, I doubt earthworms were on the menu. More likely the midges I’d noticed lifting into the warming air.

Later, I watched the same trio work the roadside where turkeys and deer had scraped leaf litter free of snow. Seventy-five yards farther up the lane, I found them again — this time feeding on privet berries. Any opportunity for food is seized. In February, that can mean the difference between life and death.

I underestimated the snow’s depth as I climbed down over the bank toward a field. The going was slow. I pressed across the open ground and into the forest, where the boughs of hemlock lessened the accumulation. It was clear the whitetails and turkeys knew this too. Their tracks stitched patterns through the understory as I paused to catch my breath.

I read the forest as I walked, looking for the stories it had written overnight. Beneath one hemlock, I studied a cluster of deer beds, hopeful for a shed antler. No luck.

But when I lifted my eyes — as I often do in hopes of finding an owl on the roost — I found something better.

A porcupine.

It lay heavily along a branch, basking in the sunlight. Through my lens, I could see its soft eyes glancing back at me — still, wary, but calm. It seemed to be savoring the 48-degree air and blue February sky as much as I was.

Not much farther into the woods, I felt the quiet nudge: best to turn around. Winter had softened my legs, and walking through snow demands more than pride likes to admit. I realized that however far I’d come, I had at least that distance — and likely more — ahead of me. When you’re searching for sheds and new birds, you rarely retrace your steps.

And so I walked back, sunglasses on, the snow bright enough to sear unprotected eyes. I paused and wrapped my hand around the trunk of a small tree.

It was warm.

Another trunk — warm as well.

The bark had absorbed the sun, and that warmth felt like a promise. The trees will awaken soon. Buds will swell. Sap will rise.

February offers this quiet assurance: winter is not yet finished — but spring is no longer a rumor.

It is on its way.

#outdoors #writing #wildlife #hiking #pennsylvania #february #valentinesday

 I had the absolute honor of watching this Rusty Blackbird forage on the margins of ice near Spruce Creek a couple of days ago.   Watching her hunt with such quiet purpose hit me in the “feels” as they say.

You see, Rusty Blackbirds populations are collapsing. Yes. Collapsing. 

This beautiful species has declined by 85–95% since the mid-20th century. That’s not a slow slide, folks. The species was once described as abundant in wintering flocks across the East are now considered scarce, local, and unpredictable. In many places, even a single bird (like this) is noteworthy.

Two reliable spots for Rusty Blackbirds in spring are the Robert P. Brooks Wetland behind Northern Blair County Recreation Center, and Moorhen Marsh just off Old Sixth Avenue in Altoona. Proof of the importance of these habitats for a bird that is in serious trouble.

Rusty Blackbirds are wetland specialists. They breed in boreal wetlands—forested bogs, beaver ponds—and winter in shallow, wooded wetlands, flooded bottomlands, and icy creek margins like the one I saw this beautiful girl at.

Those habitats have been hit hard:

 • Drainage of forested wetlands for agriculture and development

 • Loss of beaver-created wetlands due to trapping and land use changes

 • Hydrologic alteration that removes shallow, seasonally flooded areas

Rusty Blackbirds don’t adapt well to simplified or heavily altered landscapes.

Contaminants in the water:

Another major concern is contamination:

 • Studies have found elevated mercury levels, especially on breeding grounds

 • Mercury affects reproduction and neurological function

 • Their diet—heavy in aquatic insects and invertebrates—makes them especially vulnerable

The Rusty Blackbird deserves saving.  Their habitats deserves every single ounce of protection we can muster.  And no, they aren’t a “poster child” species of decline such as the Whooping Crane, or White Rhino - but rather proof that extinction sometimes occurs quietly, and in the corners of our own back yards.

This observation, given it is a single bird - and a female (which are thought to be declining even more rapidly) brings me to this:

Every accurate recorded observation of a Rusty Blackbird on eBird matters.  What also matters is the preservation of messy, shallow woodland wetlands, vernal pools, and the like on which these birds depend on for their future. 

#birding #conservation #rustyblackbird #birding #wildlife