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First blog post! It's a Friday and I'm sitting at my kitchen table, slowly getting over a cold. I have this trait that determines I must get sick whenever the weather is wonderful. I haven't really been able to bird purposefully, but I have been able to do one of the things my heart loves best: drive to the Montague Plains, sit in my car with the windows open, and listen for cuckoos. Of course, I haven't heard any cuckoos yet this year, but I have heard plenty of other birds. I've also occasionally mistaken the whistling sound of my own stuffed-up nose for some yet undiscovered species. 

The Plains are popular right now, even with out-of-towners, as a trio of Red-Headed Woodpeckers have taken up residence along Old Northfield Road. However, I like to go where I won't really run into anyone besides the occasional cyclist. I have a spot that I call "the cuckoo spot" in an attempt to manifest the strange calls of either of our two native cuckoos, the Black-billed Cuckoo and the Yellow-billed Cuckoo. We have one more species of cuckoo in the United States--the Mangrove Cuckoo, which is relegated to Florida. I have seen Mangrove Cuckoos, but only in Mexico: two dead-silent, unmoving birds on the edge of Laguna Manialtepec outside of Puerto Escondido. There's something about the North American cuckoos that remind me of spirits: they seem to hover on the periphery of the landscape, calling strangely, and then when you see one, it's sudden and still, then vanishes.  

Cuckoos are famous worldwide for brood parasitism, which is when a cuckoo lays an egg in another bird's nest. The cuckoo hatches first and grows quickly, and before it even opens its eyes, pushes the original hatchling out of the nest. The poor host bird has no choice but to feed the rapidly growing cuckoo as if it's its own baby--it may not even notice the difference. Often, the cuckoo dwarfs its adoptive parent, which can make for some comical photos: Reed Warblers in Europe often have to stand on the young cuckoos' heads just to feed them properly. 

Not all cuckoos engage in brood parasitism, though. None of our three species do it. They raise their chicks the old fashioned way--by themselves! Black and Yellow-billed cuckoos breed here in Western Mass, and I've been lucky enough to catch glimpses of both species--at my cuckoo spot, of course. 

As a cuckoo fan, I'm hoping to see a Common Cuckoo someday, most likely in Europe. There was one in Portsmouth, NH, last year, but was only spotted by a few people and disappeared by the next day. It made for a cool photo, though!

coming soon!

Even though I began yesterday with a migraine, after concluding a work meeting in Putney, Vermont, I drove three hours east instead of 35 minutes home. Over the weekend, I had seen a trickle of reports and photographs turn into a flow of updates about a very special and odd bird on Boston’s South Shore: a Bridled Tern. Though the bird occurs regularly in Southeastern waters, it is a rare sighting north of Virginia. What was unique about this bird, though, was not simply its presence, but its behavior. It had been seen hanging around the Scituate Lighthouse and getting very, very close to onlookers: landing on their cameras, beach umbrellas, and even their heads. The photos from the weekend are completely thrilling (if you’re into this sort of thing), and I was feeling desperate to go out and see this gregarious bird. I love terns. They are small, noisy, great parents and community members, and very brave, often harassing and attacking creatures many times their size. I was casually dive-bombed by Least Terns at Race Point Beach in Provincetown last summer—-what a privilege that was!

Anyways, though I wanted to go see the Bridled Tern on Monday, I had a painting class in Brattleboro, VT, at 6pm: not ideal for going all the way to the ocean and then back. Tuesday was shaping up to be my best bet, but I woke up with a migraine. No real matter—-I have medication for that: the worst-tasting nasal spray in the world. Worth it for the tern. Reports of the bird had shifted over the past day from the lighthouse to Museum Beach and the Scituate Yacht Club, but I was intimidated by the parking situation. I went to the lighthouse and met a lot of other birders searching for the tern. And then, stupidly…I stayed there for two hours or more. No tern. Common Terns, yes, expertly maneuvering in the wind and squeaking at Herring Gulls. There was a bevy of Barn Swallows, some singing Song Sparrows, and a Spotted Sandpiper combing the shoreline. Double-crested Cormorants coated the wet rocks across the harbor from the lighthouse, and a few other cool birds flew by: some dowitchers, Laughing Gulls, etc. No tern. We did see a dark tern, darker than the Common Terns, swooping far offshore a few times, but there was no way to get a conclusive ID from my binoculars, and none of the photographers with huge lenses got a good photo. I was feeling a little desperate after such a long drive, so I  gave my number to a few people who decided to try elsewhere. After hours of waiting and reapplying sunscreen, that ended up being my saving grace: a man named Nick called to say it had been seen at a nearby restaurant. I got in my car. Once I arrived at the restaurant, I was told it had flown off two minutes before. This process repeated a few times in the late afternoon: I arrived somewhere after parking in the wrong spot or incorrectly following directions, and had just missed the bird. I believe that people were beginning to feel sorry for me. Finally, finally, I went down to the beach behind the Scituate Yacht Club and was informed I had missed the tern once again, but with a new migraine forming and a 2.5 hour drive ahead of me, I stubbornly stayed put, staring out at the boats bobbing in the harbor with Jesse from Connecticut, who had also come a long ways to see the bird. I was the one to spot it this time, and was thrilled to see that it was approaching us, just two of us at first, eventually joined by one more birder. The tern was so close, suddenly, and stayed close for about 10 minutes, swooping low around the boats, catching little fish, and occasionally perching nonchalantly on a nearby rock. It came within 5-10 feet of us a few times, and we joked about it landing on one of our hats (unfashionable birders’ sun hats, of course), but that never happened. and honestly—-that’s okay! Even though the Bridled Tern didn’t display any of the wacky behavior from the days prior, it was still incredibly special to get to spend some time with it and with the people searching for it on a windy day beside the ocean.