Saw Mill River Audubon – Connecting People and Nature Since 1953

Sun and Moon

SMRA September 18, 2024

I almost didn’t go to Croton Point over Labor Day weekend. I visit the park for a quiet time, to see birds, to escape—at least briefly—from the noise and clutter of real life. Those goals don’t jibe well with holiday weekends’ crowds of picnickers and ballplayers, so I usually skip my walks there until the hullaballoo is over with.

This year was different. I’d been away all week for work, and I always feel a little lost if too much time passes between visits to my favorite nearby refuge. So when I woke up on that holiday Sunday morning, I decided to brave it, getting there early to avoid the worst of the crowds.

It was the right choice. Not a stone’s throw from the main parking lot, migrating birds were foraging in the dense riverside brush and oak and maple trees beyond the gazebo. I spotted some pretty warblers—Tennessee, Cape May, Northern Parula—and then had an encounter that I won’t soon forget.

The Yellow-breasted Chat is a big, gaudy, and charismatic bird. It’s also so unusual that scientists have struggled for decades classify it. (Once considered a giant warbler, it’s currently the sole member of its own family.) Though it’s often noisy in breeding season (its “song” is an amazing series of grunts, rattles, whistles, and other sounds), it can also choose to be almost impossible to see, moving silently through dense brush.

It’s a bird that decides when you’re going to see it…and this one decided that I was. As I focused my binoculars on some shaking branches, the Chat came popping out, showing off its sunburst-yellow breast, white spectacles, and olive-green back and wings. I watched as it picked its way from bush to bush, staying in plain view. When, after a minute and half—an eternity in Chat time—it finally retreated again, I was exhilarated.

A thrill like this happens only once on a walk, even if you’re lucky. So I was surprised to feel a similar exhilaration an hour or so later, as I prepared to leave the park.

This time, though, my feelings had nothing to do with birds. While I hadn’t been paying attention, the parking lot had filled with cars and vans. People were carrying foil-wrapped trays, plastic containers, and coolers to the picnic tables and barbecue grills that dot a big riverside field.

I knew that the rest of the day there would be filled with feasts whose enticing aromas would drift across the park. Hot dogs and burgers, of course, but also food from nearly every culture I could imagine. (I get hungry just thinking about it.)

On this day, the parking lot was also a staging area for some kind of Labor Day celebration. It was filled with young people dressed in snappy yellow or red marching-band uniforms and carrying trumpets, trombones, snare drums.

I wasn’t able to stay to watch the bands perform. But I left marveling at the way this one park can fulfill so many different—and seemingly contradictory—needs. I think of it mainly as a refuge for birds, a haven of peace and quiet. On that day, though, I was vividly reminded that others see Croton Point as a place where people from all different backgrounds and cultures can gather to simply to enjoy themselves outdoors. To picnic and play ball under a big, clear sky, sun themselves on a swimming beach, or just hang out together on a beautiful day.

Thinking about this, I realized that the two groups who love the park are like the sun and moon. Every day we share the same course, yet we never quite meet. In fact, too often it seems that we’re in conflict.

Osprey. Photo: David Brown. https://macaulaylibrary.org/photo/54168791

But does it have to be that way? If given the chance, would the people I saw gathering on Labor Day weekend enjoy watching an Osprey dive for a fish, a majestic Bald Eagle soar past, or even a Yellow-breasted Chat lurk in the bushes? And, looking at it from the other direction, could I be more open-minded about what they’re seeking when they visit?

I thought they would. I thought I could. But I wanted to find out.

Just one day later, on Labor Day itself, I started to test my theory. I was standing in the same area where I’d spotted the Chat—no luck this time—when I saw four people approaching. I’d never seen them before and guessed (correctly, as it turned out) that this was their first time at Croton Point.

They all looked to be in their twenties, and though the man, bearing binoculars and a camera with a big lens, was clearly a birder, the three women with him didn’t seem to be. Instead, they were simply wandering around and enjoying the beauty of the place.

My first instinct, of course, was to say hi and move on. After all, I had birds to see! But this time I stuck around. First I birded with the man for a little while. Then, when the women joined us, I introduced myself and described what had been on my mind. How happy I am that the park brings people of all different kinds together, something that’s too rare in Westchester and in the world.

Author Joe Wallace birding at Croton Point Park.

To be honest, I find it challenging to put myself out there with strangers. I think I talk too much and too loudly. But as I went on, I could see them all start to smile. I’ll bet they were wondering if all first-time visitors were assigned their own dedicated park ambassador, especially such a talkative one.

By the time we parted, I knew we’d made a connection. I hope our paths cross again—I’d love to take a birds-but-not-only-birds walk through the park with them someday.

And I wasn’t done being an ambassador, either. A little later, two men stopped me and asked what I was looking at. Again, my first instinct was to be as brief as possible, but again I resisted. Instead, I smiled and said, “Basically, I’m looking at little yellow and gray birds that don’t want to be seen. Exciting, huh?”

They laughed. “But, you know, I find it amazing,” I went on. “Some of them weigh less than half an ounce, yet somehow they can still fly thousands of miles to their wintering grounds every fall. And on that crazy-long journey, they choose our park to stop and rest!”

The two men looked thoughtful. “When you put it that way,” one said, “it is pretty amazing.”

The other nodded. “It’s lucky that they have this place to recharge.”

“Just like us!” said the first.

When you put it that way. As I watched them walk down the path, I heard those words echoing in my head. And I thought: That’s how I can help the sun and the moon meet—by “putting it that way.” By being open and enthusiastic about the things I care about, and equally open to enthusiasms I may not share.

My encounters that day left me wanting to do more. Perhaps some weekend I can offer a free bird walk to the people who’ve gathered for picnics. There’s always something beautiful to see at Croton Point Park, always something unexpected to learn, and I’ll bet we’ll connect just as I did with the others.

In the meantime, I’m going to keep on reaching out. So if you happen to run across a tall, gray-bearded, cheerful guy at Croton Point Park…well, please feel free to ask me what I’m looking at, or to tell me what you’re doing there.

And then let’s chat.

Birding

The Adventure Begins

SMRA July 24, 2024

It all started with a silliest-looking baby bird you ever saw.

I was walking along a path in Croton Point Park when I heard an unfamiliar chattering call. In a place I know so well, any chirp or tweet I don’t recognize summons me like a thrown tennis ball attracts a golden retriever. So I immediately headed towards the leafy maple tree where I thought the call had come from.

Scanning the branches through my binoculars, I saw nothing at first. But then the chatter came again, and after a little more searching I found its source: a newly fledged Baltimore Oriole. It was clinging to the tree’s trunk, looking around with wide eyes, and making a racket as it sidled slowly towards the ground.

Baltimore Oriole fledgling. Photo: Chip Miller

When I say the bird was newly fledged, I mean newly. Its plumage looked too big and bulky for its scrawny body (like a child wearing a grown-up’s clothes), and sprigs of white down stuck out from its head like the remnants of an Albert Einstein wig.

This was obviously the young oriole’s first solo journey, and clearly the baby bird wasn’t at all sure that the whole “leaving the nest” thing was a good idea. And in that moment, all my protective instincts said the same. I felt an intense desire to rush over, “rescue” the baby bird, and then…

And then what? Raise it myself? Bad idea for many reasons, not the least of which were my two cats at home. Or bring it to a rehabber specializing in injured birds? No. The rehabber would only tell me what I already knew: I should have left the young bird to take its chances.

Fortunately, it wouldn’t be taking those chances alone. Though I didn’t spot them from a distance, the young oriole’s parents were undoubtedly close by, ready to feed and protect their offspring as it made its uncertain way into the world.

Even so, I knew the odds were stacked against the little fledgling, just as they’re stacked against every baby bird. And these long odds make sense: Given that Baltimore Orioles usually lay between 3 and 7 eggs, if all—or even most—of the young survived, available habitats and food sources would soon be exhausted. Redundancy is built into the system to increase the odds that some babies will make it into adulthood, not to ensure that they all will.

American Robin fledgling. https://undermyappletree.net/2011/06/04/weekend-birding-fledgling-robin/

And plenty do make it, if life at Croton Point these days is any evidence. To me, it felt as if that baby Baltimore Oriole served as a harbinger of the flood of new life that has filled the park these past few weeks. Everywhere, it seems, are recently fledged American Robins with no tails and speckled breasts; scruffy young European Starlings squalling as they pursue their harassed parents across the lawns; and baby Northern Cardinals who haven’t quite grown into their crests.

What I find most heartening about this season is how many less familiar birds, ones that are threatened by habitat loss, climate change, and other challenges, also manage to breed successfully here. Bobolinks, for example, can nest only in grasslands (a vanishing habitat) like those that cover the park’s central hill. Every year, this precious, restored habitat hosts a healthy crop of young Bobolinks, their yellow-brown plumage blending perfectly with the tall midsummer grasses.

And just today, in a tall maple tree, I saw an adult Eastern Kingbird, nattily dressed in black and white, jam a bright green katydid into the gaping mouth of the young one sitting beside it. Kingbird populations, like those of many songbird species, are gradually declining, making the trees—and katydids—of parks like Croton Point ever more important.

Nor is it only small songbirds that depend on local wild spaces and the food and shelter they bring. Though the male of the park’s resident Red-tailed Hawk pair died this spring (likely after being struck by a car), the female—a true superhero—succeeded in raising two nestlings on her own.

One of the Croton Point Park Red-tailed Hawk nestlings back on April 26, 2024. Photo: Michelle Brigman

The two young hawks are out of the nest and able to feed themselves now, but that doesn’t mean they don’t still depend on their mother…or wish they did. On almost every visit to the park, you can hear one or the other letting loose with hoarse cries whose meaning is clear: “Hey, mom! I’m hungry!” Or maybe, more accurately, “I’m hungry! And lazy!”

Though the Red-tails will likely stick around the area all year, most of the birds I’ve described will soon start preparing for the serious task of migration. (Eastern Kingbirds, in fact, can spend the winter as far away as the Brazilian Amazon.) The young birds will stop whining for food, the parents will stop tending to their every whim, and then—too soon—they’ll all vanish till next spring.

Croton Point will be much quieter then, alas. But for now, a tumult of noise and activity and stress and excitement rules every corner of the park, and I’m enjoying every minute of it.

Backyard Habitats/ Education

A Child’s Gaze

SMRA June 8, 2024

I’ve been head over heels about nature my whole life, and I think it’s made me a reasonably observant person. On even a casual walk, I can usually spot an interesting bird, wary snake or odd bug.

But I also know that I’m nowhere near as good at seeing the world around me as I was as a child.

Of course I’m not. When we’re young, our brains are a lot less cluttered. We’re not constantly making plans, worrying about things we can’t control, replaying conversations, or drifting away in a mental haze. (Or staring at our phones!) When I was little, it felt like I was effortlessly present, focused, and intent. Every bend in the trail, every step, might reveal something I’d never seen before—and I knew that, if it did, I wouldn’t miss it.

And then I grew up. If I never entirely turned my back on nature, too often it became something to be glimpsed amid all of life’s more immediate demands.

Until, inevitably, a child reminded me of what’s truly important.

It was a beautiful day in May, and I was driving my six-year-old son, Jacob, back from a doctor’s appointment. He was due at school, but as we passed a local park—its dense trees shining a glorious green in the spring sunlight—I said on impulse, “Do you want to go for a quick walk first?”

A walk or school? This was a no-brainer.

We parked in Rockefeller State Park’s main lot and headed down the path to Swan Lake…where, for about the next forty-five minutes, we had a nature experience unlike any I’ve had before or since. And nearly always it was Jacob, with his sharp eyes and intense focus, who showed the way.

It all began with snakes. I’d seen the occasional Northern Water Snake along the lake’s marshy edges, but this day it wasn’t just one snake. It was seven. Seven water snakes swimming together, their bodies barely rippling the water as they made their way smoothly across the lake’s surface.

Northern Water Snake eating a fish. Photo: https://www.ontarioparks.ca/parksblog/pinery-watersnake/

We’d barely walked a few more steps before Jacob said, “What’s that sound?” I listened and heard it, too: An odd, nasal groaning coming from the lakeshore a little below the path. Peering down, we spotted another watersnake, its jaws clamped around the leg of a huge bullfrog. It was the bullfrog, struggling to get free, that was making the strange cries.

Watersnakes frequently eat frogs, along with fish, crayfish, and even an occasional mouse. But it seemed like this three-foot-long snake’s eyes had been bigger than its stomach (or its mouth), because even as it hung on grimly, it had no luck getting a better grip, much less devouring the giant bullfrog. Finally, with a last convulsive kick, the frog got free, apparently unharmed, and leaped into the lake to safety.

A little further along, we heard another nasal cry from the water’s edge. Another snake with a mouthful of frog? No: two enormous male bullfrogs standing on their hind legs, embracing each other in bear hugs. Wrestling for dominance and to impress any nearby females, they staggered back and forth, occasionally trying to bite each other.

Bullfrog. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_bullfrog

Finally, apparently by mutual consent, they let go and went their separate ways. “Who won?” Jacob asked. I said I thought it had been a tie, but that only the frogs knew for sure.

A few steps later, Jacob said that he wanted to go down to the lakeshore, and we did. Squatting there, we watched Eastern Painted Turtles sunning themselves on a nearby log and sunfish darting through shallow water. Then Jacob, his voice excited, said, “Grab right there!”

Following the direction of his pointing finger, I saw only mud, leaves, and twigs resting in about two inches of water. “But—” I said.

“Grab, Dad!”

So I grabbed. And when I lifted my dripping hand from the shallows and opened my fingers, there on my palm sat a tiny, perfect baby Common Snapping Turtle, its shell smaller than a half dollar. It favored us both with its species’ classic dinosaur-like gaze until I lowered it gently back into the water. A moment later, it had buried itself in the mud again and vanished from view.

Snapping Turtle hatchling. Photo: https://www.bluebirdfarmnc.com

“How on earth did you see that?” I asked Jacob. But even as he gave a little shrug, I knew the answer: Because he was a child, and children notice things we adults don’t.

Getting back to my feet, I glanced at my watch. It was time to start heading back. Jacob came along without much of an argument, but even then the wonders of that day hadn’t quite ended. As we neared the path back to the parking lot, I caught a glimpse of something orange hurtling like a comet across the lake towards us.

Looking more closely, we saw it wasn’t one orange comet, but two: Two male Baltimore Orioles fighting over territory, a female, or whatever else these gorgeous and argumentative birds fight about. As we watched, they barreled closer, tumbling through the air, clearly paying no attention to where they were going.

“Watch—” Jacob said. But before he could finish his warning, the two birds, still flying full speed, crashed into a bush right at our feet. Only the soft leaves and small branches prevented them from hurtling straight into the ground and likely doom. As it was, a few moments later they both emerged, unscathed, and flew off in opposite directions. All the fight seemed to have been taken out of them…at least for a minute or two.

Baltimore Oriole male. Photo: Macaulay Library #335265051, Grace C.

After that, it really was time to go, to get back to school and work, our “real lives.” I have no idea what important grownup tasks I accomplished for the rest of that day, but my memories of that brief time in the park have never faded. They come back to me whenever I’m outside with children, showing them a cool plant, bug, or bird and then waiting to see what they want to share with me.

But even more than the memories, it’s the lessons I learned that day that keep returning. No matter who I’m with, or even when I’m all alone, they remind me to slow down, clear my mind, and try to watch the world around me with a child’s gaze.

Advocacy/ Birding/ Ecotourism

Fragile Magic

SMRA April 25, 2024

After a month of rain and cold winds interrupted by occasional warm spells (and earthquakes and eclipses!), spring has finally come to Croton Point Park.

The signs are everywhere. Picnics and enthusiastic multi-generational soccer games spill out across the mowed fields beside the river, where the smells of barbecue from a dozen cultures provoke hunger pangs in those not invited. Near the entrance, shouts ring out from cricket games, inexplicable to the novice but intensely exciting to those in the know. The RV lot, empty in February, is now nearly filled with everything from tiny Airstreams to massive vehicles that look like their owners have brought entire apartment houses on vacation. Even the tent campground is hosting its first intrepid campers.

And it’s not just the people. Nature has noticed the change of seasons, too.

American Robin singing. Photo: Ethan Gosnell

Take a walk away from the crowds, especially early in the day, and you’ll notice that the air is filled with birdsong. Much of it comes from species that have been here all winter—robins, cardinals, woodpeckers—that are newly active and vocal as they pair up and establish territories. Nesting season is so short and demanding that there’s no time to waste.

But the newcomers, the species that have just arrived from as far away as Central America, are even more vivid signs of spring. Eastern Phoebes, a kind of flycatcher, call out their names in nearly every corner of the park. Tree Swallows swoop gracefully overhead or vie for ownership of the nest boxes set up in the park’s fields. Even the first warblers have shown up: Pine, Palm, and Yellow-rumped, all providing heartening flashes of yellow after the long gray-brown winter.

Pine Warbler. Photo: Ryan Schain.

These arrivals are just the beginning of a flood to come. Nearly two dozen warbler species, vireos, orioles, Scarlet Tanagers, Ruby-throated Hummingbirds, and so many more are currently on their way from South America and other distant lands. It amazes me to realize that these tiny packages of energy and willpower (a Ruby-throat weighs about a tenth of an ounce!) are currently in the midst of flights of hundreds or even thousands of miles.

White Oak flowers.

But signs of spring go far beyond the birds. The park’s gnarled willows are covered in yellow-green flowers and early leaves and the oak trees are starting to bloom. (Keep an eye on the oaks during the coming weeks—their blossoms attract hordes of bugs, making them a favorite spot for migrating orioles, warblers, and other insect-eating birds.)

Meanwhile, a different kind of botanical spectacle is taking place at ground level. In the less disturbed, even hidden parts of the park, this is the season for spring ephemerals—fragile and threatened native wildflowers whose subtly beautiful blooms appear in the early spring and vanish just as quickly. Look carefully, and you can find Dutchman’s Breeches, Trout Lilies, Spring Beauty, and others. Don’t miss your chance!

Dutchman Breeches grow in Croton Point Park. Photo: Anne Swaim

As the season goes on, the quickening of life is visible everywhere. Gray Squirrels and White-tailed Deer were around all winter, of course, but only in the past couple of weeks have I started being scolded by chipmunks again. And I just saw my first Groundhog (aka Woodchuck), recently emerged from hibernation to graze on one of the park’s expansive lawns.

These mammals can be seen throughout our region in this season, of course. But there are others, rarer ones, that show once again how much of a treasure Croton Point is. Recently, a keen-eyed visitor came upon a set of tracks in the sand of one of the park’s beaches. Large, with five-clawed toes, the tracks could only have come from a member of the family Mustelidae, the fascinating group of small- to medium-sized carnivores that includes weasels and minks.

Possible Fisher Tracks at Croton Point. Photo: Ryan Gerbehy

But the size of these prints and the animal’s bounding gait point to one of two spectacular species. It might have been a Fisher, a forest-dweller that can grow to more than three feet in length and weigh more than 10 pounds. Could the park host a small population of this rare predator? It’s possible.

Or the tracks could have been left by a North American River Otter, a species that uses the Hudson River and its bays as highways. Just to think of one choosing Croton Point to rest and explore is exciting…as is the prospect of looking down at the shore and seeing one, or perhaps a whole family of them playing on the beach.

Eastern Phoebe. Photo: Armindo Barata

Picknickers, campers, Eastern Phoebes, Great Horned Owls, Dutchman’s Breeches, Woodchucks, and River Otters: There are few places in the region (on earth?) that show more vividly how it’s possible for humans and nature to successfully coexist, even in a mere 500 acres of grassland, coastline, and scrubby forest.

But as is inevitable in today’s world, it’s a delicate balance. If it tips over, it’s the wild things that suffer, as always. So as you enjoy your spring walk, picnic, barbecue, or cricket match at Croton Point or one of your own favorite parks and preserves, please take a moment to appreciate how precious this all is.

And, when you’re back home at the computer, share your feelings. Tell your friends—or better yet, bring them along on your next nature walk. And let your representatives, park officials, and other decision-makers know both how much you appreciate the work they’re doing and how important it is that they keep going. (Please also feel free to let them know where they still need to improve—I certainly do!) To make that easier, here are some phone numbers and email addresses for some Westchester County officials:

New York State Senator
Pete Harckham
914-241-4600
harckham@nysenate.gov

Westchester County Executive
George Latimer
914-995-2900
ce@westchestercountyny.gov

Westchester Parks, Recreation,
and Conservation Commissioner
Kathleen O’Connor
914-231-4504
parksinfo@westchestercountyny.gov

The fragile magic of these places is in their hands, and ours.

________________________

Screenshot 2024-02-05 at 17-09-38 Tom on Instagram Catbird singing in the rain #graycatbird

Birding

Learning to Listen

SMRA February 5, 2024

Recently, following minor throat surgery, I was prescribed a week of full vocal rest. In plain English, that meant complete silence: no shouting, no whispering, no speaking of any kind. For seven whole days.

It’ll come as no surprise to learn that I love to talk, so I was prepared for my silent stretch to be an almost insurmountable challenge. But it wasn’t. In fact, it was a revelation. I came out of the week remembering something I forget too often: How much joy can come from listening.

Listening…and trying to understand what you’re hearing.

During the week, I took several solitary walks in Croton Point Park. More consciously than I ever had before, I focused on the sounds around me: the snow crunching under my feet, sheet ice clattering in Haverstraw Bay, and the wind whistling through the dry grasses on the hill. And the birds, of course, because even in this quiet winter season, the park was full of their announcements and warnings and conversations.

Listening, I knew that whenever they called or sang, they were always trying to communicate something. But could I learn what their messages meant?

Sometimes the meaning was clear. For example, that rusty-red Fox Sparrow singing its lovely song from a weedy patch was announcing, “Keep out!” That made sense since its winter territory was rich in seeds and other food items that would help it survive until spring.

The same with two other birds that perched up in plain view and yelled at me as I walked by: a Northern Mockingbird giving loud “chuck” sounds and a Gray Catbird its familiar nasal “Meow!” In both cases, the birds were guarding tangles of vines laden with Bittersweet and other berries—food these two birds rely on during the winter. Who wouldn’t defend a packed larder like that with a harsh call?

But not every message was as easy to decode. On one of my walks, during a thaw, I heard the raucous alarm calls of a group of Blue Jays. At first, I didn’t pay much attention, since jays are almost always noisy, often seemingly just for the fun of it. But when I did look, I saw something curious: a group of six or eight birds clustered around a large knothole about twenty feet up in an old oak tree, staring into it and shrieking like outraged infants.

This is known as mobbing behavior, and Blue Jays and other birds only practice it when they perceive a real threat. The tree cavity was sharply angled upward towards the sky, so I couldn’t see what was inside. But something definitely was, something that bothered the Blue Jays enough that when I finally left, they were still hurling abuse into the hole. “Stay away!” they were warning each other and any other bird in the area. “Danger lurks here!”

Given the size and angle of the hole and the birds’ behavior, my best guess was that the cause of all the ruckus was a snake. Snakes don’t fully hibernate during the winter. They brumate, a shallower sleep that allows them to rouse themselves on warmer days, emerge from their dens, and soak up some sun. Somehow this snake had caught the attention of the park’s Blue Jays, who were letting everyone within earshot know what they’d found.

Other times, the alarm had nothing to do with the calls I heard. A pair of Great Horned Owls raise their young in the park every year, laying their eggs in February. (Owl eggs can survive frigid temperatures and even being temporarily covered in snow!) Their hooting, alternating between lower and higher pitches, was a duet between the male and female of the resident pair.

Scientists think that these duets serve two purposes. One is to let any nearby owls know, “We’re here and we’re nesting, so keep out!” Also, Great Horned Owls mate for life, and by calling back and forth (sometimes while looking into each other’s eyes), the owls reaffirm their commitment to each other.

But figuring out what some birds were saying was no sure thing. Near the end of one walk, I was approaching Teller’s Point, the southernmost tip of the park, when I heard a series of high-pitched, twittering notes.

It’s strange: Although I’ve heard these odd calls many times, it always takes me a minute to figure out what’s making them. This time, all became clear as I watched an adult Bald Eagle, perched on a high branch and looking out over the steel-gray Hudson River, open its huge beak, throw its head back, and call again.

But what was this solitary eagle, its back to me, trying to express? For a few moments, I puzzled over various theories. But then I stopped and laughed at myself, realizing that understanding these mysterious sounds didn’t matter, not to the magnificent bird or to me, either. Whether the eagle was expressing joy or frustration or alarm, or simply liked hearing the sound of its own voice, was its own business, not mine.

That was another lesson I learned during my week of silence, another bit of knowledge I hope to keep with me now that I’m back in the speaking world: Not everything has to be analyzed and figured out. Sometimes it’s okay—more than okay, better—to just stand there, soak it all in, and enjoy.

Backyard Habitats

Notes from Underground

SMRA December 12, 2023

I tripped over a mountain at Croton Point Park yesterday. A really tiny mountain.

It was the first time in a while that I’d nearly face-planted from such an encounter…but, alas, I’m sure I’ll be doing it again soon. Because these days every mowed lawn and other flat expanse in the park seems to be crisscrossed by miniature mountain ranges, and their number seems to grow every day.

What creates these annoying impediments to safe wandering? Anyone who’s ever had a yard probably already knows the answer: moles. Those busy little subterranean diggers that tunnel under our gardens, destroy the roots of our carefully planted flowers and vegetables, and turn our lawns into works of abstract art.

In my decades of wandering around, I’ve undoubtedly passed within a few feet of hundreds or even thousands of moles. But it wasn’t till I stumbled over that tiny mountain at Croton Point that I realized something: I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen a living one in the wild.

That fact—a lifetime’s proximity, no direct proof that the animal exists—surprised and intrigued me. So I decided to do a deep dive and find out more about these odd, annoying, and mysterious creatures that scuttle around under our feet. What I learned surprised and fascinated me.

True moles are found across much of North America, Europe, and Asia. (The golden moles of southern Africa and the marsupial moles of Australia are not closely related to them or each other, having evolved the same look and behaviors separately.)

Seven species are found in North America, including three that live here in New York: the Hairy-tailed, Star-nosed, and the ones likely building the tiny mountain ranges beneath my feet, the Eastern Mole. (The term “Eastern” is relative, as the species is found as far west as Colorado.)

Unsurprisingly, moles’ physical appearance reflects the demands and requirements of the niche they’ve evolved to fill. Contrary to some popular beliefs, they are not blind. All moles have working eyes (though often concealed behind fur), and while they’re thought to be colorblind and quite nearsighted, many are actually quite good at recognizing subtle shifts in light. Similarly, though their ears are usually tiny and completely hidden by fur, moles’ sense of hearing is acute. As is their sense of smell.

Moles’ fur is thick and velvety, making it resistant to getting clogged with dirt or mud. Their hindlimbs are small, but their forelimbs are large and muscular, ending with large paws resembling human hands that are tipped with powerful claws ideally suited to digging.

At first glance it appears that moles have six fingers, exceeding the number of digits found anywhere else in the animal kingdom. But it turns out that the sixth finger is actually a modified wrist bone. It’s another evolutionary quirk that has helped moles survive and become superstar excavators since the Late Eocene Period (37–33 million years ago), when Eotalpa anglica, the “Dawn Mole” first evolved from shrewlike ancestors.

Having learned about mole bodies and evolution, I was interested in finding the answers to some puzzling questions. For example: How do they survive in a virtually airless underground environment? And exactly what it is that they’re doing down there all day, besides building speed bumps for unwary passersby?

It turns out, as it does so often, that the answers are more complex than I’d ever expected. Eastern Moles can thrive down below because they’re ideally suited to their niche. Like all mammals, they take in oxygen and breathe out carbon dioxide (CO₂), but they’ve evolved the ability to tolerate high CO₂levels (higher than any other mammal) via specialized red blood cells.

In addition, mole hemoglobin (the protein in the red blood cells that carries the oxygen all mammals need to survive) is extraordinarily good at taking in and utilizing the oxygen that does exist in their tunnels. This means that the animals can repeatedly breathe in the same air they’ve breathed out without becoming light-headed, passing out, and eventually dying of asphyxiation.

And what’s the story with the tunnels crisscrossing the lawns and fields, the ones that create those minuscule mountain ranges? Turns out that their main purpose is not for transit between one burrow and other, as I’d assumed. They’re actually earthworm traps.

Moles will eat most kinds of grubs, ants, and other bugs they encounter, along with a little plant material. (When they destroy your garden it’s usually because they’ve cut away the roots to clear their passageways, not to eat them.) But what they love most is earthworms—and they sure need to find a lot of them. An adult Eastern Mole may eat 20 or more worms in a day, consuming more than half its own weight daily.

That’s where the tunnels come in. They create an unexpected underground opening that earthworms fall into when they’re moving through the soil. When a worm tumbles into a tunnel, the resident mole—relying on its excellent hearing—comes racing down the passageway to gobble it up.

How quickly do hunting moles identify and consume a worm? They’re all remarkably fast, but when it comes to the Star-nosed Mole (a resident of eastern North America), the answer to the question is hard to believe. Having approached a potential meal, the mole uses its extraordinary star (which is made up of 27 stunningly sensitive sensory appendages known as Eimer’s organs) to decide if it’s edible. This process takes…8 milliseconds. That’s eight thousandths of a second.

Once identified, the snack goes down the mole’s gullet in as little as 120 milliseconds, or a bit more than a tenth of a second. Unsurprisingly, Star-nosed moles are considered the fastest eaters of any species on earth, and other moles are almost equally efficient.

In fact, “efficiency” might be the most accurate buzzword for moles as a whole. Surrounded by a buffet of tasty earthworms that pretty much fall into their laps and living in areas where few predators (except for an occasional weasel and snake) can reach them, they can go about their business with little to complain about.

Well, they probably don’t appreciate my clumsy feet collapsing sections of their tunnels. But I doubt it bothers them much, either. They’ll just use their powerful front legs and extra thumbs to excavate a new one.

After all, moles have lived beneath the feet of far bigger, more powerful creatures for millions of years. And here they are beneath ours, usually invisible to us but always near at hand. By now, I imagine they must take clumsy humans like me in stride.

Birding

Sunset Dance

SMRA October 16, 2023

The alert came in at around 6:00 in the evening: More than 200 migrating Common Nighthawks spotted flying past a nearby hawkwatch. Then, a few minutes later, a second alert: Dozens of nighthawks were flying over downtown Croton, near where I live.

Creatures of dusk and dawn, Common Nighthawks are among my wife’s and my favorite birds, and one we hadn’t seen in recent years. So the local report sent us outside to stand in the middle of our street, staring upward. (I can only imagine the looks we got from our non-birding neighbors!)

And there the nighthawks were: First one, then more—three a time, five—winging overhead. We recognized them instantly by their mottled gray, brown, and buff plumage, the white blazes out near the end of their long, angled wings, and their loose-jointed flight as they dipped and darted high above. It was a ghostly and wondrous sight.

As we were watching, we suddenly noticed something else: The nighthawks weren’t alone up there. Wheeling and diving among them were smaller dark birds with cigar-shaped bodies and sharply pointed wings: Chimney Swifts. And then yet another player entered the scene: Medium-sized bats flickering across the darkening sky.

And even that wasn’t all. Zipping back and forth just above the rooftops was a swarm of large dragonflies, their stiff, direct flight contrasting vividly with the skidding style of the swifts, the bats’ sudden shifts in speed and direction, and the tilting swoops of the nighthawks.

What we were seeing, in eerie silence as the sun set, was a feast. A gathering of four insect-eating creatures that represented three different animal kingdoms while sharing the same goal: Finding enough food to survive the coming winter.

The nighthawks had the longest journey ahead of them. They spend the summers as far north as northern Canada, nesting on gravel beaches, rocky outcrops, and open patches in the forest. (And, at least historically, on flat gravel rooftops in towns and cities, though they can’t use modern rubberized roofs.)

Rarely seen in more than ones or twos for most of the year, Common Nighthawks can travel in loose flocks numbering in the hundreds—even thousands—during fall migration. Their destination: as far south as Argentina, a journey of nearly 7,000 miles.

Unlike nighthawks, Chimney Swifts are communal most of the year, roosting and nesting in colonies (most often in chimneys) and migrating in flocks as well. If you happen to live near a roost site, as we do, you may be lucky enough to see them spiraling in a tiny tornado above their chosen chimney, with some disappearing down it each time they circle around.

Our local roost had seemed almost deserted for a week or more, so the Chimney Swifts we saw from the middle of our street were likely migrants from further north. Like the nighthawks, they winter in South America (largely in the Amazon basin), a distance that can exceed 3,500 miles. It’s quite the trek for a bird that weighs less than an ounce!

We weren’t sure which of New York’s nine species of bats we were seeing, only three of which migrate for the winter. (The other six hibernate closer to home.) It was fascinating to watch the bats effortlessly shift their speed and direction as they foraged for insects we couldn’t see in the dusk. When I was a child, I could hear the high-pitched chitter of the bats’ sonar as they homed in on their prey. But now I had to be content with admiring their remarkable hunting technique in silence.

The most unexpected participants in the evening feast were the large dragonflies, which stayed lower than the other three. (Perhaps because Common Nighthawks and some bats eat dragonflies!) The ones we saw were almost certainly Common Green Darners, among only a few dragonfly species that migrate, often in impressive swarms.

Green Darners have a fascinating life cycle. These had been born in ponds and lakes in the Northeast and were heading to the warmer parts of North America for the winter, but that’s the only straightforward part of their journey.

Once they reach their winter homes, they’ll mate. The females will lay their eggs in ponds, and then all the adults will die. The aquatic nymphs that emerge from the eggs (fierce, wingless predators that bear little resemblance to the adults) will live in their ponds for months—sometimes years—before transforming into adults.

Green Darner Dragonfly. Photo: Atlas Obscura

Some of these new adults will then migrate back north. Others, though, will stay where they are, breeding, laying eggs, and dying, leaving it to the next generation to take the return journey. Regardless, the dragonflies that make the trip somehow know how to find their northern breeding grounds without ever having been there before.

Once arriving in our area, Green Darners will go through the same process: breed, lay eggs, die. The nymphs will hatch, and while some will stay in this form for a year, others will become adults the same summer to head back south.

Little Brown Bat flying. Photo: Jordi Segers/Canadian Wildlife Health Cooperative

Nighthawks, swifts, bats, and dragonflies differ in so many ways. But one thing unites them: Complex, infinitely challenging survival strategies whose success seems almost miraculous. Yet succeed they do, year after year, even in a world that seems ever harsher and more unwelcoming to them.

As we stood in the middle of the street, though, we weren’t thinking about any of this. Instead, we simply felt fortunate to witness the silent spectacle taking place above our heads. This stunning sunset dance, where each performer seemed to be attuned to an intricate melody they alone could hear, while we earthbound humans could only watch and marvel.

Birding

Teenager Season

SMRA August 15, 2023

From an amateur naturalist’s point of view, Croton Point Park isn’t at its best right now. The weather’s been hot and steamy (when it hasn’t been pouring); the RV lot, campground, and picnic areas have been jam-packed; and many of the birds, done with nesting, have fallen silent. Some have even left the park to begin their long journey south for the winter.

Even so, in some ways this is one of my favorite times to visit Croton Point. Why? Because it’s teenager season. No, I’m not talking about human teenagers (though there are plenty of them around these days), but about teenage birds. They’re all over! Wherever I look, I seem to see another young Robin, Catbird, or Song Sparrow landing on a branch or hopping across the grass.

How do you know when you’re seeing a young bird? Look closely and you’ll see that, just like human adolescents, they’re clumsy and unkempt. Their feathers are patchy, their movements uncertain. Sometimes they haven’t even grown a tail yet.

Another way to tell: If you watch for a minute, you may spot a parent bird or two somewhere near these awkward youngsters. And then you’ll notice that the adults look harassed, stressed, overworked.

Of course they do. They’re dealing with the scary challenges that parents of any species face as their children step into the wider world: Trying to protect them, teach them, and encourage them to be independent, all at the same time.

And time is short to accomplish all these tasks. Familiar species like Yellow Warblers, Baltimore Orioles, Bobolinks, and many others winter as far away as South America. They don’t arrive here until late April or May, and from the moment they touch down the clock is already ticking down to their departure south, which can start as early as late July.

Bobolink Flock

Photo: Gary Leavens

And they have a lot to do in that brief window: They have to pair up (very few songbirds mate for life), build a nest, produce and brood eggs, and tend to the helpless new chicks. By the time hatchlings are ready to leave the nest, there may be only a few weeks left before migration begins…and there’s plenty for the young birds to learn before they start their first long journey to their wintering grounds.

The instinct to migrate and some other crucial aspects of bird behavior—such as flying—are inborn, carried in the birds’ genes. But many other behaviors are learned. For example, in a process similar to our own, most songbirds learn their species’ language (their songs) by memorizing what the adults around them are saying. (Usually—again like human children—as they practice what they’ve heard, they’ll add variations to make it their own.)

Birds (mostly males but some females, too) have to know how to sing to establish and keep a territory, to attract a mate, and to bond with their mates. Singing is essential for the continuation of the species. But other learned behaviors are equally essential for a bird’s survival: Knowing what to eat (and what not to) and how to get hold of enough of it to survive.

Fledgling Blue Jays

Photo: Amy Lutz

That’s where the parent birds come in. Most of us have seen patchy young birds sitting on the ground or a branch, begging to be fed. Just as they did in the nest, they’ll call pathetically, flap their threadbare wings, and even chase their harried-looking parents around until the adult gives in and deposits a bug or seed into their gaping maws.

But even as they beg, teenage birds are also observing. Researchers studying Blue Jays, for example, have found that young birds carefully watch as their parents and other flock mates hunt for caterpillars, which to a jay can be either delicious and nutritious or prickly and toxic. Only by paying attention can the youngsters learn to avoid eating the wrong caterpillar and suffering unpleasant—and possibly dangerous—after-effects.

Young birds learning what to eat from their elders is a well-known behavior. Twice at Croton Point in recent weeks, though, I’ve witnessed something that seems much less thoroughly studied: Parent birds teaching their offspring how not to be eaten.

Crows mobbing a hawk

Photo: Phil Rowntree

Both times, my attention was first caught by loud, strident alarm calls, the kind little birds make when they’re mobbing a predator like a hawk, owl, or snake. Many songbirds will make loud, far-carrying raspy sounds, while others, like Chickadees (an angry “Chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee!”) sound their own distinctive alarms.

Regardless of the call, though, it always has the same meaning. Songbirds will come together to harass a predator (a behavior known as “mobbing”) for two connected reasons: To chase away the threat while simultaneously announcing to every bird within earshot, “There’s danger here!”

At Croton Point, the alarms were aimed at Red-tailed Hawks. Both times, the hawk was being harassed by at least a dozen different songbirds of several different species, including Baltimore and Orchard Orioles, Robins, Mockingbirds, Chickadees, and Titmice. And each time the mobs featured both adult birds and young ones who’d recently left the nest.

Baltimore Oriole and Red-tailed Hawk

Photo: Steven Smith.

I always enjoy watching songbird mobbing behavior. (It’s fun to see the underbird win out over the Big Bad for once.) Except one thing stuck out this time: At Croton Point Park, at least, these songbirds don’t usually mob the resident Red-tailed Hawks. They ignore them.

The reason for this typical unconcern seems simple: Although they do sometimes hunt birds (usually larger ones), Red-tails eat mostly good-sized mammals such as rabbits, squirrels, and voles. They’re not much of a threat to a little Chickadee or Titmouse, certainly not worthy of a large mob.

So what was going on here? Just another sign of the parent birds’ stress over being responsible for offspring that had only recently left the nest?

I don’t think it’s anthropomorphic to say that that was surely part of it. But to me it seemed like something else as well. I think that the grown-up birds were modeling crucial behavior for their young. “Big birds that look like this can hurt you,” they seemed to be saying. “But here’s something you can do that will help keep you safe.”

And, as a parent, an uncle, and a teacher and mentor to high-school students in the area, I got it. I really did. After all, isn’t this what we all hope to teach the vulnerable—and so often heedless—young people in our lives?

Wild Red Fox peeking around a tree in a forest

SMRA

Our Inner Landscapes

SMRA June 26, 2023

Grasslands. Mountains. Beaches. Arctic tundra?

Is there one kind of landscape that gets inside of you, that thrills or calms you more deeply than any other? One environment that best helps you escape from the stresses of life and find the solace that only nature can provide?

I imagine that most of us do have that kind of place. The more curious question is why. Why that landscape instead of any other?

I was pondering all this on Father’s Day as I walked a wooded trail in Croton Point Park. Thinking inevitably about my own father, Stanley Wallace, who introduced me to birding, who taught me to love nature and took me out exploring whenever he could.

Dad was a man who liked to have everything well organized, a lifelong New Yorker prone to wearing a dress shirt, tie, and sports jacket even on his days off. He moved, spoke, and wrote with precision and loved keeping careful lists of what he did.

Dad in non-swamp mode.

All of which now makes wonder why, amid all the earth’s beauty, his favorite places were wetlands. Specifically, Dad loved the biggest, muddiest, steamiest swamps and marshes he could find, along with all the scaly and slimy and slithery things that lived in them.

As I wrote here a few years ago, his favorite place on earth was Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge in Queens, which is filled with marshes and reed-fringed ponds. His favorite birds were herons, egrets, and ibises. He was a big fan of frogs and toads, and I always thought that if he could have planted weird swamp plants in our Brooklyn backyard (preferably carnivorous ones like Venus flytraps and sundews), he would have done so in an instant.

Great Egret in wetland. Photo: Madison Audubon

And it wasn’t just Jamaica Bay that spoke to him. When we went to Florida on vacation, we’d always include the Everglades, Corkscrew Swamp, or another dank and sticky stretch of southern wetland as a destination. Others’ memories of childhood vacations might be of theme parks or sandy beaches, but mine are of buzzing mosquitoes, muddy sneakers, and Roseate Spoonbills, Wood Storks, and the other bizarre birds that stalked the scummy ponds like miniature dinosaurs.

I loved those expeditions (my mom was less enthusiastic), but after all these years I have one regret about them. Even though I had countless chances to as we hiked and birded together, I never thought to ask Dad why he loved swamps and marshes so much. Why did he, such a fastidious man, feel such a deep connection to such spectacularly unfastidious places?

I have a theory about that. I’d like to believe that the very messiness of wetlands, the shagginess of his favorite birds, the sheer disorder of the scene, appealed to him. Dad was a physician and scientist whose career depended on his being exactingly precise—and is there anything less precise than a gulping frog, a mass of duckweed, or a croaking, flapping heron rising from the reeds? Maybe he craved an escape into disorganization after the rigors of his work.

Blue-winged Teal in wetlands. Photo: Scott Kinsey, Audubon Great Lakes Program

I missed the chance to ask Dad and find out for sure. But as I walked the other day, I realized that I don’t have to make the same mistake with others. Just ask! And, since I was alone on the trail, why not start by asking myself? So I did.

“Joe, what landscape speaks most deeply to you?”

“Hmmm…let’s see. Let me think. No, wait! I know this one! Pick me!”

The answer is forests. I love forests. Any kind will do, but I’m especially drawn to dense, crowded woodlands, places where you can follow a twisting thread of a trail and never know what you’ll come upon next. (When I’m fortunate enough to visit dense tropical forests, which teem with life, I feel like I’ve gone to heaven.)

The author in heaven (aka Guyana). Photo: Keith Bass

And my why? That’s easy, too: Unlike more open natural environments—beaches, mountains, and most wetlands—forests are filled with both mystery and discovery, with things that are hidden but can, with luck, be found. (Oceans and dense swamps are also rife with mysteries, but from the beach or trail most marine creatures and such swamp-dwellers as rails and bitterns stay hidden, out of reach.)

But forests? With every step, every glimpse of movement and mysterious call, they’re like treasure chests you’re always about to open. And if you don’t identify that call, see what was moving through the shadows? No problem. Take a few more steps and another mystery will be waiting for you.

And often enough the treasure chest does open, and you spot something special. Perhaps it’s a gorgeous warbler perched in a beam of sunshine on a bare branch, a red eft salamander glowing like an orange jewel on the path, a fox dashing across the path just in front of you. The possibilities are nearly endless, and every walk in every season reveals new mysteries, new treasures.

Black-throated Green Warbler. Photo: Steve Rappaport.

On my forest walks, I’m also always aware that I might meet something that will make my heart pound, like a bear, a bobcat, or a big snake. (I feel like the chance of such an encounter around every bend in the trail makes an expedition even more invigorating.)

These are all reason enough to claim forests as “my” landscape. But there’s something deeper at play, too. To me, exploring a patch of forest—even Croton Point Park’s scrubby, well-traveled woods—recaptures a little of what it must have felt like to live in an earlier century, to walk the earth before every last inch of it had been mapped and tamed. In a way that other landscapes don’t, forests allow me to feel like I’ve traveled back in time. It’s a feeling I can never get enough of.

So…that’s my inner landscape, and my why. Do you have one? If you do, I’d love to hear about it.

Birding/ SMRA

All Are Welcome Here

SMRA April 25, 2023

“What are you looking at?”

It’s a question I hear often during my walks in local parks and nature preserves. And that makes sense: After all, when I’m outdoors you’ll often find me peering through binoculars, staring at something invisible to casual passersby.

Almost always, my first response to the question is a pang of annoyance, which I try to keep hidden. Don’t they realize that I’m watching a bird here? Don’t they understand that I want to be left alone? Don’t they get it that I often come to the park just to avoid talking to anybody?

Well, no, they don’t. They haven’t thought about it as deeply as I have. They just want to find out what I’m looking at. So I take a deep breath, lower my binocs, and turn, often finding a young person or parent and child standing there. Sometimes it’s even a newbie birder, binoculars in hand.

I muster all the enthusiasm I can and point out what I’ve been focusing on. Perhaps it’s a Yellow Warbler singing from its scrubby perch, or a Great Blue Heron flapping overhead like an ancient pterodactyl, or a small flock of Purple Martins wheeling around their nesting gourds.

I always try to make the sightings come to life: I describe how Martins are completely dependent on the nesting sites that we build for them; how all living birds truly are dinosaurs, and herons certainly look the part; how Yellow Warblers are just one of the flood of spring migrants coming this way from as far away as South America.

As I talk, I find my enthusiasm becoming real. (Birds’ background stories are cool!) And almost always, my interest is matched by my listeners’. Often it turns out that they have their own nature stories to share, and I learn something from them, too. More importantly, we have a moment of connection before they walk on and I raise my binoculars again.

The author. “What are you looking at?”

Perhaps this all sounds obvious—of course you should share your enthusiasm with others—but the truth is, too often we birders don’t. Like me, many other birders value (even crave) the solitude, the silence, the undisturbed chase that birding can provide. Some also worry about the growing popularity of the pursuit, fearing that the arrival of hordes of newcomers will make favorite spots less enjoyable to visit. (It reminds me of Yogi Berra’s description of a newly popular nightclub: “Nobody goes there anymore—it’s too crowded.”)

So I know that I’m far from the only one to suppress a sigh when I’m approached by a curious stranger. And I confess that as I turn, putting a smile on my face, I sometimes wonder why I’m doing it. Why bother to give more than a polite but terse answer? Why disrupt my own experience—and maybe miss seeing a rare bird—to welcome an outsider into my world?

To me, there’s both a casual and a deep response to those questions. The casual one is, Why not bother? Is this world so filled with warmth and human connection that we should disdain the chance to add to it? Even if a listener doesn’t end up sharing my enthusiasm, I always feel better for having tried.

Honestly, I think this moment of connection is a good enough reason on its own. But the deeper one is even more important. Why bother? Because the future of our beloved local preserves—and all the world’s dwindling wild places—depends on it.

The future? How can that be? Let me give you just one example out of an unimaginable myriad from around the world: the grassland hill that is Croton Point Park’s most striking feature. Notoriously, that hill was once a toxic-waste dump, a Superfund site, an abandoned landfill. And even after it was capped, it remained a scrubby mass of weeds, invasive plants, and trash.

Today, though, it’s covered by native grasses and other plants that are exceptionally beautiful in every season. Crucially, the reclaimed habitat attracts threatened Bobolinks, American Woodcocks, and Grasshopper Sparrows, along with a host of butterflies, bees, dragonflies, and other plant, bird, and insect species whose grassland refuges elsewhere are vanishing at a frightening rate.

The transformation of a toxic dump into a welcoming grassland didn’t just happen. It took the concerted efforts of a host of individuals and organizations (including Saw Mill River Audubon) to turn the landfill into a place worth celebrating and saving. But the job isn’t done: Once reclaimed, it and other preserves don’t maintain themselves. Invasive plants and other threats are always encroaching, and conservation budgets are perennially skimpy.

So to me it’s simple: The fate of countless wild areas around the world depends not only on people like me, but on future generations of equally passionate advocates. And where will those advocates come from? Perhaps they’ll include some of those who are already interested enough to stop me and ask that tentative question: “What are you looking at?”

Of course, I never know what will happen after I show someone that Yellow Warbler, Great Blue Heron, or Purple Martin. Undoubtedly most people forget our little interaction before they even leave the park. But the idea that a few—or even one!—might take a deeper interest, become involved, fight, gives me hope for the future of our fragile planet. And hope is a precious thing…even if I have to miss a bird to experience it.

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