From the Notebook

Notes from the studio and the field. Sketches, announcements, rescue stories, daily observations, and the small ideas that shape my work over time.

Saw-whet Prowl

Yesterday afternoon, I had my first-ever experience with one of my favorite birds—the Saw-whet Owl. Sort of.

I remember hearing one as a child tooting at an old dump near my grandparents house. It was a place my grandfather would look for milk bottles and things - buried deep in leaves and woodland debris. I recall evergreens in the area, and later hearing the owl call from that location when i was just a kid. (I knew my bird calls well! And still do!)

In any case, my buddy Connor had located a bird on a stretch of State Game Lands not far from my home, and I went out to see if I could re-locate it. Neither of us laid eyes on the owl—but we both heard it. And considering that I was venturing out in the middle of the day, I didn’t expect much. Still, I was rewarded handsomely.

As I pulled into the Game Lands, memories surfaced of years spent there with my father, scouting for wild turkeys. We’d arrive before daylight and try to locate gobblers by hooting on a Barred Owl call. The one we used—a Palmer’s Hoot Tube made by H.S. Strut—was, and still is, the best “hooter” on the market.

No longer a hunter but a birder, I decided to carry on the tradition and give the hoot tube a try in a spot that looked particularly owly.

At first, the only birds to respond were blue jays, crows, a raven, and a thoroughly disgruntled Yellow-bellied Sapsucker. Not wanting to overdo it, I slipped the call back into my camera bag and simply listened. Nothing.

A few minutes passed. I found myself distracted—pleasantly so—by the sapsucker, which I began photographing with my new-to-me Canon 7D. It was good practice, and I lost track of time.

Then, from the flank of a massive oak ridge, I heard it.

“Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all!?”

I froze.

The Barred Owl called again, its inquisitive hoots rolling down the ridge, past me, and into the ravine across the road. Though it was near lunchtime, I wasn’t entirely surprised. Barred Owls do call during daylight hours, especially under conditions like these—overcast skies, a light drizzle, and a gloom that made the day feel perpetually on the verge of dusk.

As the sapsucker finally lost interest in me, other birds continued to scold the owl’s presence. That reaction is precisely why the Palmer’s Hoot Tube works so well as a turkey locator. Turkeys often can’t resist sounding off when they hear a known predator. But what happened next caught me completely off guard.

“Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot!”

High-pitched and metronomic, the call of a Saw-whet Owl echoed up from the ravine.

To me, a Saw-whet sounds exactly like the old recorders—or flutiphones—we learned to play in fourth grade: a single note, repeated with unwavering cadence. It was a sound I hadn’t heard since childhood.

I worked my way beneath a stand of pine and, admittedly, pulled up a Saw-whet recording on my phone to see if I could coax another response. Standing atop a boulder, phone held overhead, I played it.

Nothing.

To get even one series of calls from a Saw-whet in the middle of the day felt like a gift. Why would it call again?

After ten minutes of slowly meandering a gravel road and scanning likely roost trees, I heard it once more—just a single, clipped toot, as if to say, I’m still here, but that’s all you get.

Today, Connor and Joe joined me back at the site. We heard another vocalization—different from the classic call I recognized. Joe, who has extensive experience with Saw-whets through banding work, confirmed that it was indeed the owl.

Despite hopeful hearts and cameras in hand, we never did manage to put eyes on it. We combed the logging road, circling the area where the owl had called both days, scrutinizing every evergreen that looked remotely suitable. Most were either too large, too open, or too small. The forest itself was largely deciduous. Wherever that owl was tucked away, it had chosen its hiding place well—and it eluded us completely.

By mid-morning, our efforts spent, we talked birds. We talked owls. And eventually, we agreed it was best to give the area a rest.

Still, all of us left with the same quiet hope—that this wouldn’t be the end of our Saw-whet prowl.

Yellow-bellied Sapsuckers

When I was a little kid, we lived on Washington Avenue in Tyrone. I remember wandering toward an alley with a little bird whistle in my hand. I really cut my birding teeth in that part of town, and even as a kid still in the single digits, I managed to see and identify quite a few birds. The most memorable was a Chukar Partridge that had somehow escaped Mr. Bickel’s aviary years ago. I thought I had stumbled onto buried treasure.

But I digress.

As I stepped out into the alley from the corner of a house, a pack of kids came barreling past on their bicycles and knocked me clean over. I hit the ground hard. An older man nearby rushed over to help, shaking his fist as the kids disappeared down the street and yelling,

“You yellow-bellied sapsuckers!”

It struck me then—and still does—as an odd insult.

Funny thing is, many people don’t realize that Yellow-bellied Sapsucker is actually the name of a bird. And honestly? I’d take it as a compliment. Just look at them.

(These photos were taken today in Blair County.)

Sapsuckers are best known for drilling sap wells into the trunks of trees. The species of tree can vary—maple, birch, hickory, even pines—with individual birds seeming to have their own preferences. The depth of the holes can even tell you when they were made: deep wells like those pictured here are typically winter drillings, while the shallow, neatly spaced wells are created in spring.

Despite their reputation, these wells rarely harm the tree. In fact, they benefit a whole host of other wildlife. Hummingbirds, kinglets, warblers, squirrels, insects—just about anything willing to lap up the sugary sap—takes advantage of these ready-made energy stations.

I remember walking behind the fields of my grandparents’ house as a boy and coming upon a pile of birch logs, long dead, still riddled with those unmistakable drill marks. Even then, I knew exactly who had made them—despite never having actually seen the woodpecker itself at that point.

The individual I photographed here is fairly easy to identify, with its bold facial pattern, red forehead, and red throat. Immature birds, however, can be trickier and are often confused with Downy or Hairy Woodpeckers—especially by new birders. One of the best field marks to look for is the vertical white stripe that “slashes” up the side where the wing meets the flanks. It’s a dead giveaway.

Have you seen any sapsuckers lately? If so, let me know in the comments—and feel free to share your photos.

Save Some Birds for Tomorrow

As I brushed my teeth early this morning, the first hint of sunlight crept over the ridges along I-99, visible from my bathroom window. Sunshine, I thought. Thank God.

I don’t mind snow, and cold has never bothered me much—but January’s lack of daylight has a way of wearing me down. Yesterday’s hike, though full of action, carried that heavy, oppressive winter darkness. Today felt different. With temperatures climbing to a balmy 47 degrees, only a couple cleaning jobs stood between me and a proper day of birding.

As if to announce what was coming, an American Robin sang from the parking lot of a local church. In all my years of birding, I don’t recall ever hearing a robin sing in January—despite the fact that they live here year-round. Yet there I was, Bronco window cracked, that song brushing my eardrum and setting the tone for the day.

After wrapping up work, Tim and I split ways—him off to deliver for Amazon, and me grabbing my camera and binoculars to soak up some Vitamin D the old-fashioned way.

Canoe Creek, I decided.

If there’s one place locally that reliably delivers both quality and variety, it’s Canoe Creek State Park. And it did not disappoint.

Just past the ranger station, my eyes caught my favorite hawk—the Red-shouldered Hawk—poised on a branch, intent on the cattails and dried grasses below. Rodents were surely moving. Though red-shoulders aren’t typically bird hunters, they’re expert predators of snakes and small mammals. Bathed in warm sunlight, the bird allowed me a moment—and a photo. My first ever Red-shouldered Hawk photograph, taken at my favorite state park. My heart smiled.

The day unfolded beautifully. I tallied 33 species within the park alone, even with a few usual suspects—like Mourning Dove—conspicuously absent. I did hear what I thought might be whistling wings overhead, but something felt off, so I left it off the list.

Most notable was a full sweep of Pennsylvania’s resident woodpeckers: Downy, Hairy, Red-bellied, Northern Flicker, Pileated, and even a wintering Yellow-bellied Sapsucker. The real surprise, though, was a Red-headed Woodpecker—a bird I typically associate with Sinking Valley. I’d seen one here years ago with Joe Glass, but this marked only my second Red-head at Canoe Creek.

There were good moments throughout the afternoon, including crossing paths with a couple birders I’ve been trying to coax into JVAS. It was nice to see familiar faces again after a few run-ins on the Ray Amato Trail.

As the sun slipped toward the horizon, I ambled back to my car just in time to hear the distant cries of Ring-billed Gulls—no doubt waiting for the lake to thaw so they can make quick work of any fish that didn’t survive the freeze.

One thing I’ve been noticing this year—though it could just be me—is a noticeable shortage of White-throated Sparrows. They’re usually a dominant species numerically, but that hasn’t been the case since their return in October 2025.

A day like this feels like a gift in January. Proof that even in winter, there’s still plenty worth saving—some birds for tomorrow.

#outdoors #wildlife #Pennsylvania #birding #journaling