Sure enough, after a few moments of disbelief from the group, the Mallards were joined by a small flock of Least Sandpipers daintily picking their way along floating logs, their little yellow legs flashing in the sunlight. Further scanning of the wetland turned up a singular Hooded Merganser. Soon a flock of Cedar Waxwings graced the barren boughs of the alders as they ferociously flew into a nearby serviceberry tree and greedily ripped the ripe berries from the stems. Their elegant plumage was accented by yellow and red. Beneath them in the underbrush, a family of Song Sparrows began to fuss, call, and then warble into a fall song.

A mixed flock of Chestnut-backed and Black-capped Chickadees fluttered, called and generally raised a gentle racket amongst the conifers at the forest edge. A flash of white drew all the binoculars as a Black-throated Gray Warbler made a brief appearance on the edge of the trees.

And what’s that?! Oh yes – a flock of Red-crossbills warned of their presence with a high clip, clip, call as they flew over to the tallest Douglas fir. At least a dozen with varying shades of red, green, and greenish yellow clung upside down on the cones, feasting on seeds ripening this fall season. As we watched the crossbills, a flock of Red-winged Blackbirds hot in the pursuit of migration flew overhead. While our eyes were still trained on the sky, a small group of Vaux’s Swift appeared, heading south as well. Well beyond the swifts, the silhouette of a soaring Bald Eagle appeared over the nearby hill.

Suddenly all activity ceased as a Peregrine Falcon burst on the scene – cutting the sky at tremendous speeds with her sharp wings. Her speed was unsuccessful this time so she settled in on the upper most bare branch of a Grand fir on the nearby hillside. Scopes trained on her to admire the fierce beauty of her dark helmeted head and steely gray body.
The smiling satisfied looks of the group were lesson enough for all – while out birding always stop to look at Mallards.

As the first woman Vice-President of the WOS, I always feel undue weight of expectations and the crushing weight of cultural prejudice. WOS is resplendent with male ornithologists who have proven their mettle in the field, and today I was going to lead a birding trip for them, including the president of the organization. Doubts haunted the predawn light – would I be able to identify all of the gulls, what if a rare shorebird landed nearby, would I recognize it, what if I, in a moment of panic, turned a Northern Flicker into something ludicrous like a Purple Martin?

As we gathered in the parking lot it quickly became apparent that the field trip participants were birders like myself. None were armed, or sporting horns on their head, or spitting fire in my general direction. Perhaps I could survive the day unscathed. As we arrived at the first destination at the mouth of the Elwha River I congratulated myself that I had not gotten lost along the way, or dropped any of the other cars. Blinded by doubt, misgivings, and terror, one is likely to drive anywhere.

As we slowly made our way on foot toward the Strait of Juan de Fuca and the mouth of the Elwha River, I slipped easily into my bird leader role calling out birds that I could hear flitting through the riparian zone. Chestnut-backed Chickadee, Song Sparrow, and White-crowned Sparrow rolled out of my mouth as they had a thousand times before for hundreds of different audiences. “Notice the high call of the Brown Creeper, the cat call of the Spotted Towhee, see there, perched in the alders, a flock of Cedar Waxwings.” One participant called out “Bewick’s Wren.” Stopping to listen, I gently said “No – listen carefully – those are Red Crossbills and they’re coming this way – look up against the clouds.” Sure enough a dozen crossbills coursed across the sky flashing in the sunlight.

By the time we reached the water, I had shed much of the anxiety and worry and was again enjoying the time with birds and people who love birds. Together we scoped the waters. I helped everyone distinguish Pelagic from Brandt’s Cormorants, squealed with joy as I pulled out three Red-throated Loons still sporting their breeding plumage, compared the brown of the Marbled Murrelets with the gray of the Rhinoceros Auklets, and shared the group’s disappointment that only California Gulls and a few Heermann’s Gulls were present.

By our next stop at Tongue Point/Salt Creek County Park, I had relaxed into my usual democratic style of leadership – polling the members of the group on interest and focus. Forest birding was thin but enjoyable, but the real treats were held at the waters edge. Three Black Oystercatchers were picking their way along the exposed rocks of the intertidal zone – “catching” California Mussels. The sun glowed off of their brilliant red legs, beak, and even their orbital ring was brilliant. The group was ecstatic with the joy of discovery. Their attention wasn’t budged till a nearby Belted Kingfisher caught a flatfish. I pulled the group along with my shouts of amazement so we could all watch together as he pummeled the fish on a madrone branch, tenderizing his breakfast. How delightful; this group of true birders were interested and excited to watch behavior of a fairly common bird rather than twitch for the rarities.

The field trip was over all too soon. We had extended it to a nearby wetland area to pick up four species of swallows and Least, as well as some Western Sandpipers. But by now I was relaxed and ready to continue birding. The group agreed that they, too, wanted to continue, so off to Ediz Hook we went. Black and Ruddy Turnstones, Black-bellied Plovers and more Oystercatchers, alcids and yet one more loon species were rounding out our day. Eventually staring into a scope at yet the 300th Common Murre, straining into the sun to see something other than a California Gull was beginning to take its toll. I thanked everyone for the delightful day as we headed back to the hotel.

I needed a little time to myself to regroup and check in with Scott. News from home is good as he is feeling better, so I headed out to the waterfront trail along the Strait. Crouched on the pebbly shore line I emptied my mind; allowing the heat of the sun to soak into my shoulders as I watched through the clear waters of the strait a tiny hermit crab skitter along the rocks. Anxiety, worry, and stress melted away with the gentle breeze, warmth of the sun and the presence of a simple crab. Glancing up, I discovered two Common Loons in full breeding plumage floating on the water just a heart beat away, close enough that I could clearly see their jewel like eyes glowing red in the sunlight. I accepted their presence as a gift. I was filled with the joy of the moment; thankful that Scott will be well and I will continue to lead successful birding trips in the future.

The habitats surrounding the area in which we camp are a mixture of Ponderosa Pine, sage lands, rangelands, and open cultivated fields. The disturbed open nature of the area is a perfect setting for mullein as it thrives in well lit disturbed soils. Correctly known by its botanical name of Verbascum Thapsus is graced with a dozen common names; including common mullein, giant mullein, woolly mullein, and – my personal favorite – Cowboy Toilet Paper. The mullein is native to Europe, northern Africa, and Asia. It was introduced to the Americas during the early 18th century and cultivated for its medicinal properties. The thick fuzzy silver leaves are dried and made into an herbal tea, and drunk to relieve all types of throat ailments such as dry cough, bronchitis, simple sore throats, and even consumption.

Birds are oblivious to the human uses of this plant. For birds, the non-native has become a welcome addition to the open landscape for the ample food and perching resources it provides. The biennial plant produces a large rosette of ground hugging leaves the first year of growth. The following year a single flowering stalk will emerge from the heart of the large cluster of leaves, climbing to the height of six feet or more. The stalk will soon be covered by a mass of tiny yellow flowers attracting insects and arthropods of all types – from moths, and mites to aphids. The abundance of invertebrates are an immediate attractant for feasting birds. After the flowers have been pollinated, the stalk turns woody and brown in the fall, festooned with round seed pods hugging the tall stalk. These seeds, in turn, provide additional food resources for small finches and invertebrates alike. These tall woody stalks and their welcome food source persist through the winter into the next summer.

In open spaces, perching sites are of a premium – and mullein is a welcome addition to the landscape. From the heights of last year’s flower stalks male Western Bluebirds will keep watch over their nearby nesting cavities. Their brilliant blue and soft orange lighting up the otherwise dull brown of the mullein. Western Kingbirds use the dried stalks as launching pads for their courageous attacks on any predator brave or foolish enough to enter their territory. Northern Rough-winged Swallows, who consistently perch more than any other swallow species, will gather in groups on a field sprinkled with mullein. Eastern Kingbirds, who appear to have an attitude toward anyone and everyone, will issue their chattering challenge to the world from atop a mullein. If another male Kingbird dare to enter the territory, chasing will ensue with the winner excitedly flashing his blood red crown from the top of the tallest mullein available. American Goldfinches seem to recognize that their bright yellow and black beauty should not go unnoticed, and will often sing from on high a seed stalk. Their bubbling song raining down on the surrounding grasslands. Even Yellow Warblers, perhaps frustrated by hours of singing in the thickets of the riparian area, will make a brief appearance on the side of a stalk to produce his ‘Sweet, Sweet, I’m so Sweet” song, only to disappear back into the nearby thicket. On occasion, in the fall, Downy Woodpeckers will cling to the sides of a seven-foot stalk hammering away at the insects lodged among the seed pods.

Disturbed open lands are hosts to plant species introduced by humans – plants far from home that thrive in a welcome environment for weeds. The native birds in turn adapt, utilize, and thrive on the welcome additions of perches, and food sources that the mullein provides. Take a moment while bird watching to watch the plants as well;  each has its own story to tell.

Once she felt that his turn was over, she would hop and glide to a new branch to solicit attention from him. But his long-term solitude and worn appearance seemed to push him to beg for more grooming. With infinite patience, she would continue sprucing up his squalid pelage. Again she would ask for a turn and again his plaintiff mutterings would turn her back to the task of grooming.

After a few days of this she turned him to the task at hand and began gathering sticks and presenting them to him. Soon he got the idea and together they selected only the finest sticks and branches from trees in the neighborhood. Despite the lateness of the season it appeared as though the were on their way to making a nest in the last remaining “vacant” tree near the front of our home.

Craven quickly introduced his new mate to us and the two of them would walk the rail of the deck. She demurely hung back as he boldly walked to and fro. Treats were provided for both and the tradition began of two crows greeting us each day in the early hours of the morning and as we arrived home at the end of each day.

Although their choice to nest is late in the season, the spring has been delayed and good weather seems to be just around the corner. Perhaps they will succeed in raising a family. We will be curious to see whether they will be dark, glossy, and petite like their mother or the will take after their father, Craven, and be large and bold with a bit of white.

There was “Red” the gimpy, rufous-colored Eastern Gray Squirrel who ran sideways and sported only half a tail. Or Mary Joe the Western Scrub Jay with half a mandible, a broken leg, and a slightly damaged wing. Her mate fed and cared for her for months as she remained steadfastly within the bounds of our garden. There was the winter of the three Mountain Chickadees hundreds of miles from their northern mountainous habitat happily zzeee, zzeee, zzeeing at the suet feeder.

Our most recent guest is an American Crow. But oh no, not just any crow – he is unique in many ways. Slightly larger than the neighborhood crows, with a heavier bill, and a tail more rounded than square. He looks like a cross between a crow and a raven. Thus was born his moniker – Craven. His odd appearance doesn’t just stop at size and shape, he also sports white wing patches and a tattered sprinkling of white on the crown of his head.

Perhaps it is Craven’s odd appearance that makes him the outcast of the neighborhood although we think his superbly unique personality may contribute to his status. While all the other crows on our street and throughout Seattle have settled down with a mate, built their nests and are now dutifully incubating eggs – Craven is the constant loner. His very appearance on the roof of a home nearby will set off the territoriality anger of any nearby crow pair. They will instantly begin diving from great heights straight at Craven – as if to pluck each white feather from his head. If he lands on the local apartment building and no crows issue a scolding; he will call at the top of his lungs with deep croaks till they drop their crow errands and come bolting out after him.

Oh, and Craven is most definitely a male. Recently I spied him consorting (quite literally) with the “neighbor’s” wife in broad daylight in a drive way. His white wing patches flashing in the light – a beacon to the corvid husband that he needed to get back to the nest… and soon.

Released from nesting duties, his daily routines center around our home. Each morning he ‘ll greet us as we enjoy our coffee on the deck. He will walk slowly around the top of the fence line, across the porch roof and circle down to the deck railing. Final stop will be at the platform feeder, where he dangles and balances while casting imploring glances in our general direction. If no peanuts are forthcoming, he will saunter off down 62nd Avenue. Walking slowly first east and then returning west down the street, never bothering with the sidewalk, picking up what urban offal might be in the offing.

Showing all the traits of a good corvid, he recognizes our vehicles. Parking in front of the house, we’re always greeted by his low croaks as he flies in – perching first on the front porch as we collect the mail, then sweeping into the fencepost as we open the side gate. He ‘ll accompany us through the side yard and wait patiently on the cottage roof… in hopes that we’ll remember a treat or two once we go inside.

Recently, the skies opened up and a torrential downpour fell for hours, drenching all of Washington. Craven was soaked to his hollow bones by 7:00am. We were concerned, as thick sheltering trees are a rarity in this urban landscape and they are all staked out and highly guarded by the nesting pairs of crows. Truly there was no shelter for this corvid outcast. As the day and the rains droned on his appearance become more and more bedraggled. No shelter and no mate to preen his matted feathers had left him looking the worse for wear. The next morning dawned gray and dry, but Craven was no where to be seen. Concerned that one more of our odd parade of wild creatures had succumbed to an ill fate I kept an eye out for him. Giving up any hope when he didn’t show for breakfast I left to run errands. But upon my return, who was there to greet me at the gate but a shabby and very much alive Craven!

So we will continue to share our garden with this corvid character, enjoying his antics as he riles the neighbors and look forward to more “oddballs” in the future.

Together we’ve explored blocks lined with homes, apartment buildings, duplexes, gardens, neighborhood pocket parks and miles of sidewalk. The beauty of walking with a dog is that moments can be both fast-paced and agonizingly slow as each bush, tree, and tiny patch of grass must be sniffed and inspected. So I’m able to get my exercise during her eager sprints from block to block and I have the luxury of birdwatching while she discovers yet another tantalizing odor.

By far the most common bird in our neighborhood is the diminutive Bushtit, Psaltriparus minimus. Certainly the crows, pigeons, and starlings abound and the Black-capped Chickadees are definitely in evidence, but it appears that every other block has a flock of eight or more tiny Bushtits. Cute is an understatement for these ping pong balls with tails. Just a bit of brown fluff bouncing from shrub to tree, always in the comfort of a family group. Careful observation will reveal the gold of the females’ eyes highlighted by a slim dark mask. The males’ dark eyes blend in with the warm brown of their perfectly round heads. They hang, cling, flit and generally are on the move at all times.

The fact that creatures so tiny can continue to coexist with we humans is astonishing. Despite the roaming cats, pesticides, herbicides, traffic, lack of trees or thick habitat, they persist and thrive. We can be grateful for their presence in our neighborhood as they glean aphids, caterpillars, and other potential garden pests from our carefully tended gardens. Their appetite for insects never slows as they flit from apartment nook to duplex courtyard. Their tiny psst, tsitt, psst contact calls lead them from hedge to birch and through the manicured lawns and messy rental house yards.

Careful inspection on my part (and Cajun’s slow nose) has revealed more than one of their wonderful nests in our neighborhood. These sleeping bags composed of moss, and lichens, carefully held together with yards of spider silk, hang delicately from the drooping branches of slim trees and impossibly small shrubs. The lining of feathers must be cozy, for the adults and nest helpers will all spend the night sleeping together until the eggs hatch. Everyone comes and goes, entering through the entrance near the top of the “bag” and resting on the eggs cupped at the bottom of the pendant.

Crows are keen on bushtit snacks so I am always careful to glance at the nests quickly then look away; feigning interest in whatever goodie Cajun may have discovered. Otherwise the crows will key in on my intent gaze and recognize a meal.

Soon my neighbor will recover and will be pushing a stroller with Cajun leading the way. Until then I’ll enjoy the cool spring mornings in the neighborhood watching, listening, and reveling in the company of my neighborhood bird life revealed at the end of a leash.

Leaving the raucous crows, chattering starlings, and traffic behind, I enter the Carl English gardens bordering the Ballard Locks. The first to greet me (or perhaps the new found sun) is a male Anna’s Hummingbird. He guards the blooming starry magnolia tree with a fierceness belying his diminutive size. A late-departing Pacific Wren trills his long song, accompanying the Varied Thrush singing in the underbrush. They must wait for the winter snows to retreat before heading to their spring homes.

Approaching the confluence of salt and freshwater at the locks themselves, I peer about in hopes that winter has left some other late migrants. Sure enough, the Barrow’s Goldeneyes gleam black and white as they feed on the mussels and barnacles lining the walls of the ship locks. Double-crested Cormorants, who hold a winter roost in the trees lining the water, are busy fishing each morning after awakening and each evening before they retire. They, too, will leave soon for the protection of offshore islands to raise their young. If I’m really lucky, I can spy the bobbing head of a Harbor Seal, checking out the “catch of the day.” I have even been fortunate enough to have my morning reverie interrupted by the passage of a family of River Otters, scampering out of the water to cross my path on their way into a burrow tucked under the banks of salal.

Truly a sign of spring are the Great Blue Herons who have returned to the locks and the adjacent ravine where they have a large rookery. The light reveals sentinels at each nest standing patiently on guard, protecting the site while waiting for their mate to bring home a stick, painstakingly stalked and captured from a nearby woods. The lack of leaves in this early spring allows close visual contact with the enormous dignified birds. And nothing shields the ear from their dinosaur croaks and kraucks as they warn off intruders.

The path winds uphill through the woodlot containing the rookery. But the herons aren’t the only nesting residents. Black-capped Chickadees pound diligently at the rotting wood of the alders, excavating a home for their young. Spotted Towhees give cat calls and double scratch amongst the underbrush. Robins filled with the surge of spring hormones violently chase each other through the trees, alarm calls ricocheting off of the bare trunks. A gentler sound is the tiny calls of Golden-crowned Kinglets and the teeter totter song of the Ruby-crowned Kinglets, still clinging to winter territories before migrating to their own nesting grounds.

Leaving the ravine behind, I approach the busy street leading to the park. But the last house on the left has a feeder and I can enjoy the sight of Dark-eyed Juncos flashing their white outer tail feathers as they feed and chase one another. But I can’t linger long; the sharp drumming of a Northern Flicker on the metal flashing of a home echoes over the traffic noise, signaling that I am once again late for work. Picking up the pace brings me out of the cacophony of bus, car, and city noises into the green respite of Discovery Park. On my way to the office, I am washed by the spring frenzy of song. Red-breasted Nuthatches yank, Chestnut-backed Chickadees give their tiny soprano dee, dee, dee, Pileated Woodpeckers bellow from deep in the woods, and Yellow-rumped Warblers whit from tree to tree.

My morning commute complete, I look forward to treasures I may see on the return home now that spring has provided light at the end of the day.

The rental house had a large open-air plan with ten-foot folding doors that opened the home to a large deck in front. The only thing between the house and the lava-encrusted beach was an infinity pool. The back of the house opened into a sun dappled courtyard filled with colorful plants from the tropics crowding a small stream and waterfall. An ideal place to concentrate deeply on sitting still and watching birds.

Fresh water is a scarce resource on the this volcano. Open freshwater formerly available to birds has been drained and developed to accommodate a growing number of tourists such as myself. The swimming pool with its infinity ledge provided a shallow drinking and bathing area for all of the neighborhood birds. Rarely a moment went by without the lip being decorated with a variety of colorful birds.

The first to arrive each morning were the Java Sparrows. Their bold black, white, and red seemed the perfect tropical touch to the Hawaiian theme. The males jostled for position although the length of the pool that could have easily accommodated many more. The female sparrows usually arrived in packs of eight – safety in numbers? Quietly and  politely they drank, bathed, and flew to a neighboring palm to preen together.

On rare occasions the Saffron Finch would come down to bathe and drink, gracing the pool edge with warm yellow touched with an orange that was almost too brilliant to watch in the sunlight. But the pretty Japanese Silvereyes would flit from palm to shrub and back again, rarely alighting at the pool. Even the “ordinary” House Finch was found in a range of colors from yellows to bright pinks and reds, brightening the atmosphere with their lilting songs.

Next on the list was the Zebra Doves. Between drinking and bathing there was much courting, cooing, and displaying around the slate deck of the house. Sometimes their a advances took them into the living room and beyond to the garden courtyard without a second glance at the human occupants. Other house visitors were the Yellow-billed Cardinals. But they flew into the house with a particular purpose. Landing on the backs of chairs at the bar or strolling across the dining room table, they scanned for any good morsel that may have been left about. Oft disappointed, they would fly back into the open deck without a second thought.

Common Mynas screamed and commented from the tiled roof of the neighboring house, making multiple trips throughout the day to feed their growing brood. The next red tile over was occupied by nesting English Sparrows who, unlike the Myna, made frequent bathing and drinking trips to the pool.

With the plethora of exotic, introduced, and invasive species it was easy to see how the native Hawaiian birds had been wrecked by human’s quest for tropical paradise. Not satisfied with the native birds who demise was hastened by a myriad of forces – habitat destruction, disease-bearing mosquitos, and introduced predators to name a few – people had released a plethora of exotics to brighten the new world of their making. While I gained joy from watching the rainbow of color and sound in the “yard” it was always with a touch of sadness knowing that what I was seeing was as natural as the deck on which I was lounging.

Each evening we retired to the lower deck in anticipation of a stunning sunset, and Mother Nature never failed to produce. But not only with the reds, pinks, oranges and yellows of a ocean view sunset, but with native birds as well. Here on the nearly indestructible lava, birds who have migrated to the Hawaii winter for thousands of years still found a night roost in front of our home. Dozens of Pacific Golden Plovers would catch the sun and sparkle a true gold each evening. They were joined by Ruddy Turnstones molting into spring plumage and – if we watched carefully enough – a Wandering Tattler would delight us with an appearance. So each evening the yard list became a moment of healing knowing the sun would continue to glow each night and native birds would continue to migrate through my “yard list” for years to come.

The early morning hours on the Stillaguamish river flats presented us with a vast mixed feeding flock in the scrubby growth of a cut over poplar plantation. This winter morning finds hundreds of these migrants feeding together – American Robins from Canada and Alaska, Dark-eyed Juncos from high altitudes, Lincoln and Fox Sparrows from distant habitats. Today they are frantically feeding and filling the air with their songs, practicing their chorus for a breeding season just moments away. Arriving at Port Susan, we are astonished and delighted to discover four Barn Swallows winging their way around the flat brown lands next to the tidal flats. Harbingers of spring, they have arrived in the rains and cruise through the air undisturbed by the winter landscape surrounding them.

As we wound our way through the farm lands of the Stillaguamish River we marveled at the huge numbers of waterfowl – countless parades of Mallards, Northern Pintail and American Widgeon. Deeper pockets of water revealed Bufflehead and an occasional Common Goldeneye.

Viewing the flooded landscape outside of Stanwood revealed a gathering of a dozen Bald Eagles hunched on the muddy field alongside no less than seventeen Great Blue Herons. The eagles have descended from their wintering grounds on the upper rivers where they had gorged on spawning salmon. Along the deltas, flood plains, and river flats, eagles had gathered for the last hunt before returning to their nesting grounds. The plethora of waterfowl attracted by the open fields would be enough sustenance for the eagles to complete the winter cycle. The Great Blue Herons were taking advantage of the receding winter flood waters to glean easy pickings of fish and voles concentrated in an easy dip bowl.As we watched the predators fill their winter needs in anticipation of spring, we were accompanied by the joyous fussing of competing Marsh Wrens. The wrens were staking out early territories; each male proclaiming his bit of dried grasses and sedges. Despite the limited cover these little brown “mice” were still difficult to see but lovely to listen to.

Arriving on Fir Island, we ventured to the Skagit Game Range. The sun had broken out and revealed a pair of Red-tailed Hawks perched together in courtship. Their bonds formed in anticipation of another nesting season. They were close together and their deep reds and browns blended with the red alder catkins drooping from the bare deciduous branches. High above, early Violet-green Swallows and more Barn Swallows danced across the blue sky. While Yellow-rumped Warblers – our wintering warblers – whitted below them in the barren trees. A Spotted Towhee trilled his first territorial cheeet cheeet song from the thorns of a blackberry bush.

We journeyed further north of the Skagit River where our picnic lunch was taken at the Padilla Bay Nature Reserve where despite the brief sun breaks, the wicked damp wind reminded us that winter clings on. But we enjoy our repast accompanied by several Bald Eagles, one scruffy coyote molting out of its winter coat, and a nearby singing Song Sparrow below a hunting Red-tailed Hawk. After lunch we continued to head north to the rich river flats of the Samish. Pausing at the West 90, we were overwhelmed with the sheer numbers of wintering raptors that abound in this area. Northern Harriers, Rough-legged Hawks, Bald Eagles, Red-tailed Hawks all in evidence throughout this confluence of Puget Sound, the Samish River and the rich delta. Was it 14 Harriers? or 18 Harriers? Certainly the Bald Eagles numbered in the 30s and the rarer Rough-legged Hawk numbers stopped at seven.

Exhausted by the wealth, we stopped at Edison to refresh at a bakery. But even coffee and pastry was no respite from raptors. Easily visible from the bakery’s deck was a Merlin perched high atop a conifer less than a block away. We watched his hunting exploits, scattering Eurasian Collared Doves to and fro as we preyed upon our cookies and brownies.

Before leaving the Samish Flats it would pay to stop and gaze closely at the abundance of Trumpeter Swans that had delighted us throughout all of the day – we listened with delight to their honking cries. Their glorious pristine white silhouetted against the gray sky. Landing by the dozens, the sharp contrast of brilliant new green grasses against the swan’s pale plumage, filled our binoculars with light. We panned the multitudes, enjoying the elegance of the white adults; noting the plumage change that was already occurring for the young of last year. Their drab gray was peppered with sparkling new white adult feathers. As we watched the elegant swans, the sound of Horned Larks twinkled through the air – foretelling of spring adventures in the mountains.

The afternoon was waning, so with one more long look at the winter gift of swans we headed out on to the highway – reaching 45 mph before skidding to an instant stop, for there amongst the next flock of swans was a singular Sand Hill Crane. The gray elegance reflected in the mass of white surrounding it. Was it overwintering with this flock or stopping by on its way north for breeding season?

We had time for one more stop on the way south. We made our way back to the North Fork of the Skagit River on Fir Island. Here, where the saltwater meets the mud of the river, a rich mixture of grasses and cover make an ideal hunting grounds for vole predators. As we exited the vehicle, the song of Western Meadowlarks rained down upon us. A quick scan with the scope revealed over twenty yellow-and-brown beauties feeding in the fields. A few meadowlarks winter in western Washington but their song reminds us of the warmth of their spring and summer homes in eastern Washington.

Climbing the dike as the sun sank low, our attention was captured by the barking of Northern Harriers. The agitated harriers swooped down on Short-eared Owls perched amongst the driftwood. Soon the Short-eared Owls took flight, floating moth-like against the backdrop of a pink and orange sunset reflecting from the fresh snow clad Olympic Mountains. Marsh Wrens continued to sing a spring duet with the Western Meadowlarks as the sky filled with the cacophony of thousands of Snow Geese flying from the fields to their night roost on Puget Sound. It truly had been a day of winter mixed with the hope and signs of spring.

Looking forward to the upcoming year, I know that early spring is a good time to escape; March can be the most frustrating month in the Northwest. Spring will have arrived with the blooming of the osoberry and salmonberry. Few, if any, migrants will have returned and our plethora of winter residents will be making their annual return migration – and it’s still 46 degrees and raining. A perfect time to fly to Hawaii – the Big Island.

The Big Island, with its large number of endemics, is daunting as the birds are widespread in many habitats and many in very inaccessible areas. My plans will try to capitalize on as many species as possible during the short one week visit. My friends who are treating me to the trip have suggested that perhaps I should spend a bit of time with them around the pool. Well, life is short and there are too many birds to see for pool sitting! Perhaps I can devise a compromise by March. For now the names of Nene, Apapane, Common Amakihi, Hawaian Hawk, Iiwi, Elepaio, Palila magically lure my mind to national parks, long steep hikes, and hovering around bug-infested wetlands. My idea of an excellent Hawaiian vacation.

Panama hovers in my mind’s eye every day. I have been lured by this amazingly diverse country for many years. The dream comes to fruition this year in April. For ten days, I ‘ll be able to explore this land of varied habitats from coastal flats to tropical rainforest peaks. Few places in the world offer a variety of natural habitats in such a small surface like Panama. Within its small borders – it’s the size of South Carolina – Panama hosts habitats that range from dry deserts where cacti and other succulents are common, to lush tropical rain forests and mountain cloud forests where moss-covered epiphyte-laden trees abound. Additionally, its location at the Crossroads of the Americas allows Panama to host bird species from both from North, Central, and South America. This diversity of habitats and an ideal location translates into well over 900 species of birds.

Even a short list of species names glitter with color, light and warmth: Resplendent Quetzal, Royal Flycatcher, Yellow-green Tyrannulet, Golden-hooded Tanager, Purple-throated Fruit Crow, Ocellated Antbird, Bronze-tailed Plumeleteer, Blue Cotinga, Yellow-eared Toucanet, Rosy Thrush Tanager.

Eight very fortunate Ramblin’ Rose clients will be joining me for this adventure. The most difficult decision they will make during the trip is a choice between visiting an orchid farm with 2,000 different species of unique flowers with very good chances of seeing the Slaty Flower-piercer or attending a hummingbird workshop. Here they will have the opportunity of viewing Magnificent Hummingbirds, Violet Saber-wing, and the Scintillant Hummingbird to name a few.

Spring is a long way off, and my mind is wandering to distant locations as I study each potential route and endemic bird. But for now I will have to be satisfied with Dark-eyed Juncos and Black-capped Chickadees, 46 degrees, and rain.