NOVEMBER

Thunder Wings

I’M SITTING ON THE EDGE of my bed on a perfect November morning. The sky is a light wash of predawn gray and the jays are scolding loudly. In just a few minutes, the sun will crest the horizon, gray will fade to blue, and sunlight will turn the trees golden. I resist the temptation of more sleep and quickly make my way outdoors.

There isn’t enough time for a birding trip today. I have obligations: things to get done and so much to do. I journey into the backyard in search of whatever birds I might find there instead. I have exactly two hours to look for birds and whatever secrets nature wants to reveal in this little woodlot of mine.

Dark-eyed juncos rise from the lawn as I leave the back steps. They love it here because there are plenty of evergreens and brushy borders surrounded by patches of green lawn. This is precisely their favorite winter habitat, and so they prosper. Cardinals and catbirds like it here, too.

I don’t see the cardinals right now, and the catbirds are long gone. I had two catbirds this past summer, and their song filled the yard each day. In May, I noticed them bringing nesting material into the spruce trees that line the garden. They were a busy pair in the garden, where a few butterfly bushes now retain some green. The foxglove has faded and withered into dry seed stems. I walk past the garden and remember when the sun’s heat was stronger.

I journey now into the woodlot in search of the unexpected. It is still early, so I might see something rare or catch an owl returning to roost. A lone chickadee hangs precariously from a dead branch. Two nuthatches work a tree trunk. I’m at the back of the lot, running out of woods as I approach the next development—and nothing.

When I start to head back, I accidentally step on a dead branch. Everything explodes around me, as if I’d hit a landmine. In a single instant, I’m disorientated by a whoosh of air, and a deafening, thunderous boom. The explosion sends a whirlwind of decaying leaves into the air. I don’t know what’s happening. My heart pounds, adrenaline courses through me, and my body seems ready to fight or flee. In the corner of my eye, I see a tiny brown feather drift down with the leaves. I turn quickly, just in time to see a ruffed grouse wind its way through the trees and out of sight.

With adrenaline still flowing, I realize that I have just flushed the grouse from its hiding place. It was as frightened as I was. The grouse timed its ascent to catch me off guard with a powerful burst of its wings, to escape nearly unseen. I gather my composure, and it occurs to me that I will never forget this thrill, this rush. Ruffed grouse are not common in southern Connecticut. Who knows what other uncommon birds have visited my woodlot? I look at my watch and hurry back to the house. Maybe I will venture out here again tomorrow. Sometimes the best birding happens close to home.

In fact, if I think about it, the far corner of my land has been a great place for birds. It might be the edge effect that makes it this way. This is where Treasure Run flows at the border of my land and Heather’s Meadow begins. It is exactly where Heather and I found ourselves surrounded by wild turkeys on a crisp November morning years ago.

Early on that morning, we were out on a mission to explore our woods when the leaves were down and a few hard frosts lessened the threat of ticks. We went out with the hope of seeing something of interest on our own land—maybe a fox; an unusual relic, such as an old piece of farm equipment; or anything to satisfy our sense of adventure. Walking quietly through the fallen leaves was next to impossible, though, and I realized that we might not see much wildlife. Instead, we decided to sit and maybe catch a glimpse of some creature at the edge of the meadow clearing. This is when the wild turkeys flew in and started feeding all around us.

We almost felt threatened because of their enormity and their strength in numbers. I remember Heather being a little bit frightened, but we soon realized that we were undetected and that an opportunity to observe and enjoy these majestic land birds was unfolding. Staying silent and motionless allowed us to experience something special in the early light of that beautiful autumn morning.

Although I have seen countless wild turkeys, the peace of that crisp morning watching that flock make its way around us has remained memorable. Those who have had similar experiences know what magnificent birds they are. And though most of us have enjoyed seeing these birds, few of us realize that turkeys were extirpated in many states and have only recently made a comeback. Enjoying the beauty and excitement of these huge birds was impossible just a few decades ago.

Historically, wild turkeys thrived in my region until the arrival of the Europeans. The early naturalists found them in abundance in the virgin forests. Quite rapidly, though, the turkey population plummeted. As settlers began to log and clear land for farming, the virgin forest, which was rich in mast—the nut crops that turkeys like—virtually disappeared. Turkeys eventually became extirpated here. Fortunately, some populations held out in other states, such as Pennsylvania and New York.

In the fifties, sports enthusiasts began a political movement to reintroduce turkeys into New England forests. Turkeys make for excellent hunting because they offer a lot of meat and their wary nature makes for a true challenge. Thanks to those concerned hunters, who were also interested in having these birds return to the region’s forests for their intrinsic value, we once again have wild turkeys in Connecticut.

After some benefit analysis to determine its cost effectiveness, a trap-and-transfer program began. At first, semidomesticated birds were utilized. These birds soon died out and were found unsuitable for the wild here at the historic northern limit of the turkeys’ range; thus, there was a need for wild birds that could survive our harsh winters. Native birds from other states were transferred, and today, wild turkeys are thriving all the way into northern New Hampshire and beyond.

Thanksgiving Day turkeys will soon be purchased and roasted, and I will have plenty of helpings of the meaty bird. But only hunters will have the satisfaction of tasting the bounty of their hunt—a native wild turkey, as known by our forefathers. On Thanksgiving Day, I hope I will be truly grateful for all the memorable bird sightings I’ve enjoyed, especially watching turkeys with Heather at sunrise on that frosty morning.

IT RAINED ALL MORNING—a cold, driving rain with sharp, unforgiving northerly gusts. By noon, the ground was saturated and puddles appeared everywhere. At the moment, the rain seems to have stopped, and the clouds are moving fast, which makes me think it might be blowing over. There is hope for some sun later in the afternoon. I’m staying in for now, though, because it seems every time we get these cold November rainstorms, I’m out in the worst of it, running errands and getting soaked. So I choose to avoid this storm and this cold snap. It is a good day to watch the feeder from indoors and catch up on inside chores.

A small bird with a tawny belly and a distinguished black eye stripe has just caught my attention. I’m watching it fly in, skip the sunflower seeds, and go to work on the suet. It leaves quickly and settles on the trunk of a massive white oak. It’s a red-breasted nuthatch.

The red-breasted nuthatch is much smaller than the familiar white-breasted one that is so commonly seen at all of our feeders. An uncommon sight here in New London County, this tiny bird is abundant to our immediate north, where the hemlock, fir, and spruce dominate the forested land. Consequently, its range extends across Canada, north to southern Alaska, and east to the Maritime provinces. During the summer, it feeds on arthropods and other insects. Like the white-breasted nuthatch, the red-breasted one feeds upside down, creeping headfirst down tree trunks and underneath branches, searching for food dwelling in bark crevices. Climbing down trees allows red-breasted nuthatches to find food that other birds are unable to reach. On more than one occasion, I have lain flat on my back, looked straight up into a hemlock, and attempted to determine how they feed the way they do. The answer lies in the feet: they use one foot to hang and the other to balance.

When winter arrives, their diet changes, and they start to feed on conifer seeds. Their acrobatic skills are again put to good use because they hang upside down on evergreen boughs in search of cones. Sometimes, the cone crops fail, and the birds that depend on them irrupt into mass migrations southward. Red-breasted nuthatches are among those birds known as irruptive species that turn up in the thousands during such winters. While the sight of this bird at my feeder is thrilling, it is significant because this sighting, and many other sightings of them across the region, may indicate an irruptive winter. I hope so.

PEOPLE ARE STILL CLEANING UP after the hurricane last month, but I’m lucky because, even though we lost power for two days, no large branches or trees came down on my property. It wasn’t as bad as Hurricane Irene, which caused far more property damage to inland Connecticut several years ago, and certainly not as bad as the storm that hit us a few months after Irene, known to meteorologists as Alfred. Alfred cannot be rivaled for tree damage. After it hit, the entire western part of the state looked like a tornado went through it.

I still remember how, when Alfred hit us back then, trees crashed to the ground as the weight of the heavy snow on the still-foliated, sap-filled branches became too much for them to support. I anticipated a blackout that night, but I was fortunate. Unlike this year, I never lost power, and in the morning, I found no branches on the lawn and no trees down, except for a few in the woodlot. Throughout that day, I could hear nothing but the sound of chainsaws. Across most of the state, electricity was out for up to a week and in some places much longer.

New England is not Florida, but hurricanes have been a fact of life for us. I can remember a strong hurricane that pushed its way through southern New England when I was a little boy. I am not sure which hurricane it was, but by looking up weather records of hurricanes that hit New England during the seventies, my guess is that it was probably Hurricane Agnes. I know it came in June and that I was probably about nine or ten years old. I was old enough to venture from home down to the Longmeadow Brook to a place we called the Pollywog Pond Woods, which was about a half a mile from where I lived. I have a vivid memory of being at the brook on a warm summer day and marveling at the strong current pushing debris downstream.

My father often shared his memories of a much worse hurricane. He was ten years old when the hurricane of 1938 blasted across New England. He told me about that day often, about how the wind began on his way home from school, and it became so strong he found it difficult to walk. He said that he saw his neighbor’s chimney blow away, too. He talked about heavy rain that flooded much of Springfield and West Springfield, Massachusetts. He said the hurricane happened when the Eastern States Exposition was taking place in West Springfield. My dad remembered that the fairgrounds were completely flooded, and the farm animals were swimming around the city.

My father was born and raised in Springfield, Massachusetts, but the hurricane of 1938 was far more devastating here in Connecticut, especially along the coast. The locals still talk about it every time the forecast threatens strong wind or heavy rain. You just can’t forget that kind of total devastation.

Irene and Alfred were storms that caused a tremendous amount of tree damage across the Northeast. Forest destruction like this, it would seem, is the last thing our environment needs. While it is true that the loss of so much foliage will allow more CO₂, some benefits have resulted from these very natural disasters: they create snags and blowdowns that help birds.

Snags and blowdowns are vital components of a healthy forest. Snags are dead trees that remain standing; blowdowns die while on the ground. Birders know that dead trees provide nesting sites, food, and shelter for a long list of birds. However, it is surprising just how important snags in particular are for birds.

Winter Storm Alfred created the ideal tree-crown loss and limb damage that allows for rotting from the inside out. The destruction will continue to be apparent for a long time as trees succumb one by one. Trees that rot in this way can be excavated by woodpeckers and transformed into suitable nesting cavities. The presence of so many snag trees will help to increase bird populations.

In many types of woodlands, the absence of snags is a major factor limiting the growth of woodpecker populations, and it is not just woodpeckers that depend on snags. Secondary cavity nesters, or those birds that utilize the vacant nest cavities created by woodpeckers, also depend on snags. With roughly 25 percent of the total woodland bird populations consisting of cavity nesters, I can truly appreciate the snags in my woodlot.

In New London County where I live, thirty-five species of birds utilize snags for nesting. Most—including white-breasted nuthatches, northern flickers, and great crested flycatchers—are insectivores, which help contain insect pests. Besides the great crested flycatchers, screech owls, tree swallows, bluebirds, and chimney swifts use the tree cavities found in snags as well. Many birders are surprised to learn that kestrels, hooded mergansers, and buffleheads are also secondary cavity nesters. Eagles, ospreys, and herons also need snags in which to build their nests.

In the same way that the autumn leaves caught the snow that caused these trees to fall, the accumulation of blowdowns, one upon another, traps snow and provides shelter for birds below. Logs may entice grouse to drum for mates come spring, and upturned roots provide wind breaks against winter snows.

I wish more people understood the importance of snags because some think that all snags should be taken down. I think it’s a pretty common misconception that woodlands ought to consist of perfectly straight, healthy trees with well-trimmed lower limbs and should resemble a local park. If you’re not into nature, birds, or wildlife, it’s understandable that you might think this way. I recently hired a contractor to do a repair, and he commented on the privacy of my backyard and the beauty of the woodlot. Unfortunately, he then said that there were too many dead and crooked trees. So, I took him into the woods for a short walk and showed him where a red-bellied woodpecker had drilled a nest cavity and where a different woodpecker had excavated some grubs from another dead tree. He seemed to now appreciate the snags, and we went back to the house for a beer.

So, if state contractors and individual landowners can limit cutting to only trees that pose a safety risk, we might someday soon enjoy at least one good thing from a very inconvenient series of storms. When I hear the knocking of so many woodpeckers or see a majestic eagle in flight, I will think back to Hurricane Irene and Winter Storm Alfred and feel better about those days that my friends spent in the dark. They went nearly two weeks without lights. I let them take showers, wash clothes, and charge their electronics over here at my house.

IT CAME EARLY THIS YEAR AGAIN. There was stillness in the air and a calm so great that it became unsettling. The smell of downed leaves lingered, and in the groves, the oaks were still with color. But it came nonetheless. The woods were not ready, and neither was I. When the zero hour approached, the silence became holy, and the air soon filled with white flakes.

Now, I’m in a white world, and autumn is over. Down drifts the snow, settling on logs, landing on rocks, and filling my boot marks in the mud. I lean back, look up, and watch the flakes floating down from a slate-gray sky. Tired from a long hike through my woodlot and beyond, I sit down on a boulder for a while, and the snow begins to cover me. A slight breeze whispers through the oaks, and then the silence is broken by the call of a single chickadee.

I let the snow continue to cover me as I watch the chickadee working the huge branches that reach above me and the rock pile near the shed. For the past few years, we have had some early snowfalls, and every time, they create a sense of urgency for the birds. Chickadees start moving around, and their winter flocks, which follow them, become active, too. With the very first flakes, the chickadees, titmice, nuthatches, and downy woodpeckers begin to feed frantically. At the start of each snowfall, they show up at the feeder in droves. Sometimes, an uncommon migrant will show up at this time of year, attracted by the activity or simply enticed by the food while heading south.

For example, earlier, when I started on my hike through the nearby acres, I noticed a bird beneath the fly-through feeder that was just a bit too big to be a white-throated sparrow and, upon closer examination, I discovered that it was a fox sparrow. It wasn’t a vivid rusty rufous or foxy red; rather, it was a darker chocolate brown with a few rusty highlights. Otherwise, it blended in with the brown leaves, and its behavior appeared to be like that of white-throats as it hopped forward and kicked backward to uncover seeds. I could have easily overlooked it.

I know there are different variations in the coloring of these birds. You see most of these variations out West, where there are actual subspecies inhabiting specific geographic regions. Here in the East, the bird is supposed to be a rusty brick-red color, which is true to the bird’s name, but not all of the birds conform precisely to this. Upon closer examination, you can see the flinty gray on the head.

I don’t see too many of these interesting sparrows. The bird’s appearance beneath my fly-through was an unanticipated thrill. Like white-throated sparrows, fox sparrows breed to the north and are found here in southern Connecticut only during the winter months. However, the fox sparrow’s breeding range begins much further north than the white-throated sparrow’s, which can actually be found nesting at higher elevations, even in southern New England. Typically, though, the white-throated sparrow’s breeding range stretches from northern New England up to Hudson Bay. The fox sparrow’s range begins about one hundred miles south of Hudson Bay and stretches far into the Arctic region. Both sparrows winter as far south as northern Florida. I haven’t spent much time in the true boreal forests of northern Canada, so I don’t know the bird very well.

The yellow-bellied sapsucker, which migrates through these parts, is a different story. I’m extremely familiar with it from my time in Vermont. Yellow-bellied sapsuckers turn up here frequently in either the spring or the fall. It helps to be alert during the fall and to keep a close eye out for migrants. But more often than not, I discover the yellow-bellied sapsuckers because of their very distinct, catlike call notes. I’m so used to hearing them in Vermont that I sometimes forget that they are foreign notes around these parts, and a few minutes often pass before I realize that the presence of one on Berry Lane is special. Their presence eventually gets my attention, and the yellow-bellied sapsuckers do not pass through unnoticed.

At the family cabin in Vermont, these birds are abundant, and over the years, I have come to know their peculiar ways. I know their drilling and mewing catcalls. They are shy birds: they prefer not to be seen and avoid humans, if possible. They are not wilderness birds, I should clarify, but they would rather not let us get too close. It takes patience to observe them, and doing so must be done from a distance and through plenty of foliage. They almost always frequent the higher parts of birches or maples and, at the cabin, these trees all have the sapsuckers’ straight-line, horizontal drill holes in them.

I believe their drilling behavior is because of the high sugar content found in the sap of the birches and maples. As their name implies, these sapsuckers feed primarily on sap rather than insects. If any insects get caught in their sap wells, however, they consume them. In the spring, sapsuckers drill deep holes to reach the rising sap in the xylem, which is found in the interior layers of a tree. But later, when the tree has completely foliated, they drill shorter, shallower rectangular holes to obtain the sap in the surface phloem, which transports sap back down to the roots. Once the hole is drilled, they use their long, barbed tongues to take the sap in.

When I arrive at the cabin in early May each year, I’m filled with excitement because the yellow-bellied sapsuckers are already there and are the first birds I hear. Few birds have returned there at this time, and so the woods are still except for the sound of the sapsucker. Every time I see one on my land, I can’t help but think of the cabin, so it’s nice to have a sapsucker in the yard now and again.

I decide to check for sapsuckers in my side woods, where the maple, yellow birch, and other northern hardwood species grow. The birds prefer these trees. I shake off the snow and get up off the cold, damp rock. The chickadee flies away, and I finish my woodland meander with a walk back to the house through the side woods. But there are no sapsuckers—not right now.

THANKSGIVING WILL BE HERE IN just five days, and by then, the leaves that are still clinging to the oaks will have fallen, except for a few clusters here and there. Now, the November woods are a naked scaffolding of sturdy trunks and an intricate network of branches. Although barren looking, reminders of the teeming summer life are everywhere. Throughout the November landscape, bird nests are now revealed in trees and shrubs.

I have decided to journey through the autumn woods in search of the last remains of summer. I’m walking around out back on the east side of my woodlot. I’m looking for the wood thrush’s nest, which I never located during the summer. It should be a finely woven nest built a few feet from the ground filled with tiny rootlets. Female wood thrushes weave a delicate nest of dead grass, leaves, and small stems. The nest should be about six inches across with a three-inch inner bowl formed by the female’s breast; it ought to be easy to spot with the leaves down and the ferns withered away.

At last, I see the reason for the thrush’s song, which filled the summer dusk. He sang for his mate and to proclaim the territory around the nest site. I find it to the left of the rock piles very close to a downed tree trunk at the base of a yellow birch sapling. The nest has held up well and is securely situated in the fork of three branches about a foot from the ground. I walked right past it when I was looking for it during the summer. Looking at it now, I’m not only reminded of those beautiful flutelike notes I heard all summer long, but I can “hear” them in my mind.

With a few exceptions, most birds’ nests are easier to find than that of the wood thrush. Even though a nest might be conspicuous, it doesn’t always mean that it is easy to identify. It helps if you know where certain species like to build their nests. For example, the lesser-known red-eyed vireo hangs a small bowl-shaped nest from a forked branch high above a roadway. The Baltimore oriole suspends a seemingly precarious nest from the outermost twigs of a tall tree. With nothing but its beak, the oriole carefully threads strings, plant fibers, and bark shreds into a pouch that is so secure it lasts for years. For the tiny hummingbird, a branch fork is not necessary; its nest, which is made with plant down and spiderwebs, is stuccoed right onto a small limb. In the waysides and meadows, goldfinch and indigo bunting nests are now exposed in the young saplings. These birds line their nests with spider silk. The goldfinches’ nests are the more securely constructed of the two.

Not all nests are so intricately constructed; crows’ nests are a loose formation of small sticks with an inner cup made of soft plant fibers and moss. I look for these nests high up at fifty feet, where they were hidden among the summer canopy foliage. Great horned owls often reuse a crow’s or hawk’s nest, but if they do build, they are even less particular about details. Their nests consist of little more than a large stack of sticks with some feathers or fur.

Discovering new nests is always a thrill, but sometimes it is humbling, such as when I discovered the vireo nest in an oak near the driveway. It was a different world when the summer foliage was full and green, which is why I didn’t know it was there. It is often difficult to see a nest when the leaves are out. And some species go to great lengths to keep the whereabouts of their nests a secret. The beauty of having located any nest is that many birds will build a new nest in the same general location. Knowing this will give me an advantage next spring when I hear the song but cannot locate the singer. I imagine watching my wood thrush build its nest right before my eyes.