Springs in the Fall 2: Kentuckies in Ohio

Part one here.

As I dropped the flattened stone I had been lifting back into place, Carl called out, “I’ve got one!” Looking up the creek, I saw Carl hunched over, a large stone slab balanced against his leg and arm.  Our hike was beginning to push the five hour marker, and we hadn't found so much as a red-backed salamander as a consolation prize.  My back and arms ached from the countless rocks I had lifted.  I had been nearly ready to give up; the day was just too warm and dry for amphibian activity.  Kentucky spring salamanders (Gyrinophilus porphyriticus duryi) might be common in cooler, wetter conditions, but today was clearly not favorable. We'd missed our best chance to find one, I had thought.  Call it pure luck or persistence, but our searching finally payed off. 

In the shallow depression where the stone had perviously lain, an underground spring trickled into a small, murky pool.  Just below the surface, sat the orange silhouette of a large salamander.  With Carl pinned against the rock, it was up to me to make the catch.  I moved deliberately, trying not to disturb the pool and scare the salamander back underground.  My hands shook from a mix adrenaline and exhaustion as I tried to cut off the salamanders exit.  It was an awkward fit, but I was able to wedge the end of my dip net below the pock-marked rock and the uneven, gravel riverbed.  If I could just get ahold of the salamander’s plump body, I’d be able to usher it into the net.  I plunged one hand into the water.  For a split second, I felt the slimy body of the salamander slide through my fingers.  Then it was gone.  

It’s fair to say I was aghast.  As I looked up in horror, Carl chuckled.  “That’s the way it goes sometimes with springs,” he said.  Our near success prompted another hour long search before we finally gave up.  That orange silhouette has haunted me ever since.  I can’t count the number of times I’ve played the scenario over in my head, imagining what I would do differently if I could have another chance.  

That was late spring 2018.  The dry, warm weather had pushed most of the Kentucky springs below ground.  All except for that fateful individual.  I would have to wait for fall before the pinkish-orange amphibians ventured back up to the surface.  Carl and I spent the summer hiking, searching for everything from rattlesnakes to racers, that one, lone Kentucky spring in the back of my mind all the while.

The Kentucky spring's cousin, the northern spring salamander (G.p. porphyriticus), is scattered across the eastern and southern portions of Ohio.  The Kentucky (G.p. duryi) is located in just a few counties in south-central Ohio (as well as western West Virginia and northeastern Kentucky).  The differences between the two subspecies are subtle.  The Kentucky is usually smaller with different body proportions and is more brightly colored compare to the northern race.  Populations of the two subspecies do not appear to overlap, although there is some integration in southeastern Ohio.

Western Chorus Frog.

As the fall semester began, Carl and I each found ourselves swamped by the work loads of professor and undergrad.  On rainy nights, we pushed what work we had aside to search out the annual fall migrants.  Autumn, I have learned, isn't just a settling period before winter.  While many creatures, like snakes, turtles, and song birds, become scarcer as winter approaches, amphibians are often more plentiful just before the cold snap.  Spring peepers and western chorus frogs reemerge in larger numbers, and some even start to call (something they haven't done since April or May).  Marbled salamanders are one of the few species to actually breed this time of year.  Spotted salamanders, Jefferson Salamanders and Small-mouthed salamanders can also be found moving across roadways on rainy nights in late fall as they search for overwintering sights.

Small-mouthed Salamander.

With the salamander activity picking back up in early November, Carl and I decided to retry our luck with the Kentucky springs.  On our first free weekend that peeked into the 60s, we set off for Pike County.  Carl’s truck rattled down the old gravel road, sloshed through a good sized stream, and came to stop at the same spot we had visited five months earlier.  Leaves that I had last seen as buds were now turning gold and falling to the forest floor.  The morning air was crisp and the nearby stream flowed with a steady pace.

Within the first five minutes of searching, Carl called out, “I’ve got one.”  I couldn't have crafted a better rematch scenario myself.  This time, there was no spring or crevice for the salamander to escape into.  Carl held the rock as I knelt down and plucked the spring salamander from the substrate.  It squirmed and struggled, but this time I had it.  The grin on my face stretched from ear to ear.

Had it not been for that initial find, we likely would have concluded this trip as laborious and unfruitful as the first.  For the next three hours we didn't find another salamander.  We flipped good rock after good rock, only to stare in bewilderment at empty pockets of sediment—the perfect size and shape for a hiding salamander.  Finally we decided to call it quits.  Just before turning around, Carl flipped one more rock.  A juvenile spring with a regenerating tail sat below, the smallest spring Carl had ever seen.  After all our hard work, we were both relieved to have found another individual.  These salamanders are clearly still abundant, but under suboptimal conditions they can be very troublesome to find.

We took a few parting shots and set off for home, homework and grading on each of our minds.  Hopefully, there will be another nice day or two before the winter months bombard us with snow and ice.  As we drove, I could tell Carl was already off at the next location in search of the next species.  Maybe northern red salamanders will still be out. . .

Thanks for reading.
Keep living the field life.
RBW

Winter Birding: Rafts and Rafts of Gulls

White-breasted Nuthatch

Winter birding may not be as glamorous as the spring migration, but colder weather brings with it some unique opportunities for birds and bird watchers.  Winter introduces a new cast of characters to the woodland stage.  Northern migrants start popping up in unexpected places—a snowy owl on a barn roof, redpolls at the lakefront, or red-breasted nuthatches at the bird feeder.  Old faces often take on new appearances, making their identification as difficult (or as exciting) as a new species.  As the bright greens of the landscape fade into dichromatic colors of black and white, birds retire their bright breeding plumage in favor of more cryptic colorations.  Yellows and reds turn to mottled browns; distinct stripes and patches blend into broken striations.  As the northern wetlands prepare for winter, birding becomes a whole new challenge.

Juvenile Ring-billed Gull

Some species like ducks and gulls form immense congregations, rafting together by the thousands.  A trip up to Lake Erie had my ornithology class scanning the swaths of ring-billed gulls for one lone kittiwake (that we did not find).  We scrutinized over each mallard, trying to create a long-tailed duck or a pintail.  Much of our efforts were for naught.  That’s just how winter birding goes.  A rare species may appear one day, then disappear the next.  There is no predicting exactly where something will turn up, or when.  It takes persistence and dedication to discover something special.  After being spoiled in South Carolina with rarities at every turn, I had to remind myself that northern Ohio birding takes a bit more effort and discomfort.  

While not quite cold enough to snow, the weekend was certainly cold enough for the freezing rain to dampen our spirits.  Thankfully, unlike South Carolina, this trip we were staying in the heated, dry dormitories of Old Woman’s Creek.  The cozy dorms were our home base as we set out to explore the diversity of wetlands along Lake Erie. 

Ring-necked Duck

Saturday morning we scanned the lake front behind our dorms, surprised that the usual rafts of mergansers were absent.  Dr. Miles then directed us to Huron Pier where we saw more ring-billed gulls (a lot more).  With two prime birding spots a bust, we headed to Sheldon Marsh—a preserve I have visited on my own several times.  It’s an attractive wetland with a boardwalk and a lakefront beach.  There are always a few interesting waterfowl species no matter the season.

Tufted Titmouse

White-breasted Nuthatches and tufted titmice danced along the trails as if to great us.  These year round residents are so abundant that I've come to think of them as birding along with me—locals just as surprised as myself when a rare species turns up in their wetland.  The nuthatches yank-yanked their nasally calls as they crept in winding circles down the trees.  Nuthatches form mixed-species flocks in winter, joining up with chickadees, titmice, and woodpeckers as they scour the woodland for food.

I was enjoying the familiar species we were seeing, but by the end of Saturday, I was craving something new to photograph.  We had made our way to the Lorain Impoundment, another spot I've had the privilege to bird (of a sort) in the past.  We walked around the pond, Lake churning behind us, the sky darkening with storm clouds.  Mallards, Buffleheads, and Hooded Mergansers drifted away as we past by.  Sparrows flitted from the trail, grabbing loose seeds before disappearing into tall grass.  My mind was back at the dorms with dinner and a warm bed.  Just as we were concluding our hike, a little brown bird popped up in a tangle of brush in front of us.

Grasshopper Sparrow

I knew instantly it was something we hadn't yet seen.  The feather pattern was complex, a mixture of light grays, browns, blacks, and tans.  It hopped from branch to branch, mere feet from where we stood.  I was able to snap a number of photographs for comparison with our field guides.  Our initial identification was swamp sparrow, a much more common species than I had first thought.  Upon later inspection, however, I learned it was a grasshopper sparrow.  I've seen these birds only a handful of times in southern Ohio, where they inhabit open fields.  This was the first time I have identified one in northern Ohio despite years of birding the Lakefront.  The grasshopper sparrow has been classified as a "common bird in steep decline," as their populations have dropped by some 72% across the country.

Ornithology Class 2018 Lake Erie birding trip.

The next day, we did what I call “moving van birding.”  With the freezing rain streaking down the windshield, none of us were getting out of the vans if we could help it.  We drove from nature preserve to nature preserve, slowing just enough to scan the open fields and waterways with our binoculars.  “Canada geese, mallards, maybe some tundra swans,” we rattled off.  Northing new that would make us leap from the vehicle.  We all wanted to see something rare and exciting, but the prospect of heading out into the frigid weather kept us content with the usual suspects.  

We birded in this fashion through East Harbor State Park and Howard Marsh, only getting out of the vans at Ottawa National Wildlife Refuge so that Holly could buy some more bird earrings at the gift shop.  By lunchtime we were ready to head home.  It was not the most climactic way to end the trip, but I was content.  Birding can’t always be an extravaganza.  It’s hard work and perseverance.  I’ll be back up in Cleveland next week for Thanksgiving, and will almost certainly return to a few of the same locations to bird.

Golden-crowned Kinglet

Upon arriving back in Athens, we were surprised and a little peeved to find the day pleasantly clear and in the low 60s (the next day it would drop back into the 30s).  My ornithology class is ending soon.  I want to extend my endless thanks to Dr. Miles (DOMI) and Holly Latteman for making this class the best it could have been.  I have a renewed appreciation for the avifauna of Ohio and beyond.  I hope that the friends I have made will continue our adventures into the field whenever our busy schedules allow.  Soon I will be traveling to Ecuador.  With any luck, I will have the chance to observe birds like I have never before.

More soon!

Keep living the field life.

RBW

Fall Migrants and Butter Butts

We watched as two black and white woodpeckers—one large and one small—danced their way up and around the bare tree branches.  The littler of the two, with its stubby bill, was a downy woodpecker.  It zipped about, hanging upside-down like a chickadee as it tapped at the tree bark for insects.  The other, a hairy woodpecker, was slightly larger with a longer, black bill.  It lurched its way towards the canopy, uttering singular chirps as it climbed.  A third bird flew in and landed just out of sight.  At first, I thought it might be another woodpecker, but when it hopped into the light I caught a glimpse of a bright, yellow patch at the base of its back.  “Butter butt!” murmured half the group.   

The orno gang.

On a crisp November morning, my ornithology class was back in the field at Lake Logan in search of fall and early winter migrants.  Dr. Miles had brought along a scope in hopes of spotting a common loon silhouetted against the misty water.  A few pied-billed grebes popped up from the lake bottom, but no loons appeared.  We moved through the underbrush, scribbling on notepads as white-throated sparrows and American goldfinches darted away.  “I was hoping we would see a few butter butts,” Miles said as we headed to our next destination.

The Yellow-rumped Warbler is lovingly nicknamed the “butter butt” by birders for the distinct patch of yellow on its backside—a trait shared by both sexes.  Unlike other local warbler species, most of which migrate through Ohio or stop here in the summer to breed, the butter butt overwinters in lower latitudes before traveling to nest in the Canadian arctic and Alaska (as well as a patchy distribution in the western US).  Most warblers molt into drab non-breeding plumage in winter, and the yellow-rumped is no exception.  However, its distinct yellow hindquarters remain just as vibrant throughout the year.  

It wasn't until our last stop that we finally encountered our butter butt.  As we watched, the little, gray bird began feeding on berries, allowing for excellent views and dozens of photographs.  Despite its washed-out attire (summer birds exhibit striking black breast stripes and gunmetal-gray heads), the warbler was still a welcome surprise.  Feint yellow streaks were visible on its flanks as it quivered from one branch to the next.  Butter butts are relatively reliable in the winter woods of Southern Ohio.  Some northern breeders, however, are much more sporadic.  

This season, Ohio is scheduled to receive an irruption of several northern species.  A poor birch and cone seed crop in Canada has pushed many seed-feeding species out of the arctic and into northern states.  One bird species of notable significance is the red-breasted nuthatch.  A few of these small cousins of the white-breasted nuthatch usually make it to Ohio each winter.  Some years they don't turn up at all.  Until this fall, I had never seen one of these northern residents.  One trip to Stroud's Run State Park in Athens resulted in a dozen or more of these charismatic creepers feeding in the canopy above me. 

With their orange-dyed belly, blueish back, and black and white head stripes, red-breasted nuthatches rival any warbler for beauty.  When feeding, they are easily located by their nasally yank-yank call, slightly softer than the call of a white-breasted nuthatch.  While easy to hear, they can be challenging to see (and even harder to photograph) as they feed primarily on pine cone seeds at the very tops of coniferous trees.  Their small stature allows them to disappear among the tangles of branches only to reappear dangling upside down from a pine cone.  They will occasionally work their way into the understory as they search for food, though they remain flighty and shy.  

It remains to be seen what other northern residents will find their way to Ohio.  I've kept an eye on the eBird reports, hoping that a red crossbill, evening grosbeak, common redpoll, or purple finch will turn up in my vicinity.  More info on this winter's migrants can be found at Jeaniron.ca.

More soon!

Keep living the field life.

RBW

Birding South Carolina: Herons and Heat Exhaustion

Read part one here.

Tricolored Heron.

Groves of longleaf pines stood on either side of the single-lane, dirt road as we rattled along, their thin, winding trunks ending in green tufts as if sprouting from the mind of Dr. Seuss.  The morning sun was just beginning to peak through the top branches, casting golden rays onto the forest understory.  Each time we came upon a tree with a white ring painted around its base we stopped to look and listen, hopeful that an endangered red-cockaded woodpecker (Leuconotopicus borealis) would give itself away.  

Common Yellowthroat.

“There’s too much understory,” Dr. Miles frequently exclaimed as we moved through the forest.  When it comes to habitat preference, the red-cockaded woodpecker is a picky species.  It requires old growth stands of longleaf, loblolly, or slash pine with an understory thinned by frequent fires.  Unlike other woodpecker species, red-cockadeds utilize only living trees to roost and nest in, as well as to feed on.  In our human-transformed world, this once plentiful and dynamic habitat has almost disappeared completely.  

DOMI (Dr. Don Miles) reading his field notes.

After a trying hour and a half, we had seen brown-headed nuthatches, pine warblers, and even a pileated woodpecker, but our target bird remained illusive.  As the day warmed, we decided to head to our next location; perhaps the bird life would be more productive there.

As we drove out, Dr. Miles slowed the van, examining a marked tree in the distance.  “Wait here,” he said, “I’ll be right back.”  He left the van running as he hopped out of the driver’s seat and disappeared into the undergrowth.  As if on queue, a woodpecker zipped up and landed on a tree trunk not 100 feet from where I sat.  I scrambled to unlock the van door, grabbing my camera in the process.  Focusing my lens on the bird in question, I knew instantly it was our red-cockaded woodpecker.  I snapped a series of shots as I motioned for the group to come see.  Miles reappeared from the brush and confirmed my identification.  As we watched, an entire family group of woodpeckers moved through the trees all around us, filling the air with squeaky, mousy calls like parakeets in a pet shop. 

Red-cockaded Woodpecker.

The woodpeckers were elegantly patterned with a net of black and white markings across their backs, white, lightly spotted stomachs, black caps and stripes along the lower cheeks.  Their common name refers to the “cockade” or reddish streak on the male’s face—a field mark completely invisible at almost any distance.  Sadly, red-cockaded woodpecker populations have dwindled significantly since 1966, with declines of 86% across their range.  They have disappeared from many states, and populations have become fragmented and isolated.  It remains to be seen whether the red-cockaded woodpecker will survive, or if it will join the ranks of its cousin, the extinct Ivory-billed Woodpecker, that once called these same woods home.

Little Blue Heron.

With one rare bird to start the day, the rest of the trip was sure to be a success.  Tibwin Forest brought us a close encounter with an anhinga and half a dozen young alligators (my personal favorite).  After a brief run in with dehydration (I had been so excited to see birds that I forgot to drink water...), we headed for Garris Landing.  Foresters terns and boat-tailed grackles drifted over the marshy waterfront.  I sat groggily on the pier, sipping my water bottle and admiring the new lifers as they past by.

Clapper Rail.

The next day, I was sure to pack extra water as we set off on a quick hour-long drive to Huntington Beach State Park.  Huntington is widely considered to be one of the best birding hotspots in South Carolina.  We were not disappointed.  As soon as we stepped onto the boardwalk, we were surrounded by birds of all shapes and sizes.  Snowy and great egrets soared overhead, laughing gulls patrolled the railings, and clapper rails darted between patches of vegetation.  In the distance, the trees were spotted with patches of white—dozens of federally threatened wood storks (Mycteria americana).

Wood Stork.

A rare species in the US, wood storks are bizarre, snowy white creatures, with gray, bald heads, and an elongate, crooked finger of a bill.  What they lack in elegance, they make up for in shear abundance at Huntington Beach.  On our drive out, we must have seen 50 or more feeding together along the shore. Huntington is one of the few places in the country that boast wood storks in such large numbers.  

Roseate Spoonbill.

As we continued walking, I watched as three pink birds touched down at the end of the causeway.  Anticipating their quick departure, I decided to jog the length of the road in order to photograph them at close range.  I dodged families with strollers and birders with lenses longer than my forearm.  As I reached the roseate spoonbills (Platalea ajaja), I quickly realized the birds had no intentions of going anywhere.  They fed calmly at the shore, flat bills churning up the mud at their feet.  They actually moved closer to me as they dabbled, indifferent to my presence.  As the rest of the group caught up, a car passed and someone exclaimed, “look at the flamingos!”  Safe to say we all had a good laugh at that.  

Roseate Spoonbill.

By the mid-afternoon, I was as birded-out as the rest of the group (Dr. Miles wasn't phased).  The day was hot and the surf looked incredibly inviting.  Other beach goers walked past us, towels slung around their necks, birds the furthest thing from their minds.  I was beginning to envy them.  After a "two mile hike" (that ended up being four) along the beach, we added the sanderling and ruddy turnstone to our list. Despite my birding fatigue, I was grateful to see the turnstone, a species I have always wanted to find. It hopped along the rocks of an embankment, probing among the barnacles for a tasty invertebrate snack.    

Ruddy Turnstone.

At long last we were set free for a swim.  After three sweaty days without showering, the ocean never felt better.  As a wildlife biology and conservation major, I hoped my classes would bring me encounters with exciting birds and herps.  I never expected to meet such a great group of fellow fledgling ornithologists.  That night, Dr. Miles cooked jambalaya as we relaxed around the campfire and picnic table.  The next morning we would head the 10 hours back to Athens, but for now we watched the stars and listened to the barred owls.  

Skylar, Amanda, Remington, and Holly. 

Where my binoculars at?

Keep living the field life!
Ryan

Tents and Treefrogs

Since the semester began, my ornithology class has been collectively anticipating our South Carolina trip with a mix of excitement and apprehension.  Many of my classmates had never been camping before, and this was going to be the longest most of us had ever gone without running water.  To further complicate things, the recent hurricanes posed a serious flood risk for many of the areas we hoped to visit.  With our date of departure fast approaching, Dr. Miles was constantly checking the forecast and the state's water levels.  We feared our primitive campground would be inaccessible, and the weather too harsh for birds or birders alike.  If conditions didn't improve, the trip might not happen at all, but we remained optimistic.  On the morning of October 4, we met at Irvine at 5 am, packed our gear Janga-style, and braced ourselves for the long ride to the Palmetto State.  

Eastern Narrow-mouthed Toad

Ten hours, two vans, seventeen birders, and too few bathroom breaks later, we arrived at our campsite.  I rushed out of the van, eager to be on solid ground.  We quickly erected a city of multicolored tents around our picnic table and portable camp stove (Dr. Miles is a damn good cook).  That’s when we first noticed the mosquitoes.  DEET chocked my lungs and throat as a dozen spray bottles appeared from pockets and bags.  In the long run, these efforts would do little to ward off the incessant insects.  By the end of the four days, I received more mosquito bites than I have ever had (my multitude of red bumps could have easily been mistaken for poison ivy).

As I scanned the darkening campground with my headlamp.  Dozens of pinpricks of light winked back like stars hidden in the grass—eye-shine from countless prowling wolf spiders on the hunt for unsuspecting invertebrates.  This particular discovery was met with horror from most of the group.  The spiders were large, but clearly harmless—that is, until someone found a black widow near the base of a tree.  We all grew much more cautious as we swept our way through the underbrush after that.  

Eastern Spadefoot

Now that we were in a new state, birds were not the only thing on my mind.  South Carolina is home to a diverse array of herpetofauna vastly different from Ohio’s.  Every divot in the substrate, every lump of sand, every shiny rock, slick with dew, held false promise of frogs.  The day had been horribly hot, near 90 degrees, and muggy.  As darkness set in, the night grew comfortably cool, but the humidity remained.  It seemed like a good night for terrestrial amphibians.  

Eastern Spadefoot

Something small and reflective scuttled past my shoe.  Frog or Spider?  Bending down, I was delighted to find that the little creature was a narrow-mouthed toad (Gastrophryne carolinensis)—a species I had hoped we might find.  Plucking the toad from the earth revealed one of the smallest adult frogs I had ever seen.  It was scarcely bigger than a quarter with small, thin legs, a clay-colored back, and purplish sides and stomach.  Small-mouth toads are a wide ranging species, found in moist habitats and under cover across much of the southeastern United States.  As the group admired the little toad, another, larger frog was discovered—one I never imagined we would see.

My jaw dropped as someone brought over a medium-sized purplish-brown frog with enormous, luminous yellow eyes.  In Ohio, eastern spadefoot toads (Scaphiopus holbrookii) are extremely endangered, found in only a few southern counties where they are active during heavy rainstorms a few nights each year.  To see one here, in our campground, on a clear night, baffled me.  Eastern spadefoots occur throughout the coastal planes, only reaching Ohio at the extreme northern tip of their range.  In the south they can be downright common.  We found ten easily as they grumpily hopped through camp.  

Barking Treefrog

The third and most beautiful frog species of the night was also discovered on a whim.  I noticed the stunning green frog as we weaved between spiderwebs and branches.  It was poised motionless at the end of a stick like a glittering green stone.  I knew immediately it was a treefrog, but what species alluded me.  I later learned that the specimen we found was a barking treefrog (Hyla gratiosa), identifiable by its large size and granular skin.  The barking treefrog is another inhabitant of the coastal plains region where they can be quite common in wooded areas.  

Green Treefrog

By the end of the trip we would add the green treefrog (Hyla cinerea) and the pine woods treefrog (Hyla femoralis) to our list.  I can only imagine the amount of amphibian diversity we could see if we had spent more time searching for them.  Luck would have it that a former professor of Appalachian college was herping around our campsite.  The final night of our trip he brought over several jars full of native salamanders and a few snake species he had caught the night before.  I couldn't believe our luck.  I will definitely need to return to South Carolina in the future to seek out its more obscure herpetofauna.  

Pine Woods Treefrog

The following day, we woke early and packed ourselves back into the vans (thankfully we had only a short distance to drive).  We were in search of a rare and endangered species of woodpecker.  Dr. Miles pointed out a longleaf pine with two freshly painted white rings around its base.  The forest service had marked one of the bird’s nesting trees.  Now all we had to do was wait and listen. . .

Yellow Ratsnake

More soon.

Keep Living the Field Life.

Learning to be a Woodpecker

This is the first installment in a blog series chronicling my adventures in ornithology class.  I’ve anticipated taking this course ever since I first began attending Ohio University over 2 years ago.  As a Wildlife Biology and Conservation major, the famed “ologies,” ornithology, ichthyology, herpetology, mammalogy, and entomology (birds, fish, reptiles, amphibians, mammals, and insects respectively), are the basic tenets of any wildlife biologist.  It has been a long road to get here, but after countless hours in chemistry and physics labs, I finally get to leave the classroom and venture into the outdoors.  To become a biologist, you must get your hands dirty.

It is 7 am.  The sun has just begun to rise, and I can already tell the cool morning will not last long.  This September has been exceedingly hot, reaching the low 90s for days on end.  If it warms too quickly, the bird won't remain active.  Our small class of fledgling ornithologists files groggily into the bios vans.  I’ve spent a disproportionate amount of my undergraduate career in these two timeworn vehicles.  As I’ve mentioned before, I am prone to motion sickness, and it’s safe to say these relics are an unforgiving pair.  With a few morning donuts sitting heavily in our stomachs, we set off to Zaleski State Forest.

I’ve visited Zaleski (or Lake Hope as it is sometimes called) several times before.  It hosts a wide diversity of bird life as well as herpetofauna and a large (though secretive) population of bobcats.  We park the vans near the old brick furnace, grab binoculars, and step out into the morning air.  Our professor, Dr. Don Miles, immediately begins spouting out the names of birds.  “There go 2 mourning doves, brown thrasher in that tree, blue jays, downy woodpecker, northern cardinal.”  I consider myself a birder, but I’m always dumbfounded when ornithologists can spot and ID the tiniest of birds from within the dense tangles of underbrush.  I crane my neck, camera held aloft, trying to pick out some movement that might give the birds’ position away.  

A gray bird zips onto a branch above me and begins bobbing its tail—it’s an eastern phoebe.  We would see several more of these charismatic flycatchers during our hike.  They are one of the easier birds to identify simply because they perch in the open for extended periods of time (for birds that means more than 2 seconds).  Holly Latteman, the TA, excitedly motions to the top of a tree.  A yellow-billed cuckoo is hopping from branch to branch, its long white and brown tail visible as it moves.  Our group takes turns asking where the bird is as we all scan the foliage.  Luckily, the cuckoo sticks around long enough for us all to spot it.  I hear these birds much more often that I see them; their cackling, knocking call is a common summertime sound in southern Ohio.

As we hike towards a wetland, we catch a glimpse of a wood duck uttering its whinnying call as it flushes.  Painted turtles and bullfrogs sit basking on tree stumps along the shore.  My friend Amanda Szinte points out a green heron poised motionless on a log.  A kingfisher rattles past, flashing us with a streak of blue and white.  Chickadees dance overhead, flipping upside down as they pluck seeds from the branches.  A female pine warbler flutters across the pond and a chestnut-sided warbler sings in the distance.  Then we spot it, a woodpecker with a gray head hitching its way up a dead white pine.  Variations in plumage between the sexes and age classes are one of the hardest parts of bird identification.  You could memorize an entire North American field guide and still be dumbfounded by this gray-headed woodpecker.    

Only six species of woodpecker frequent Ohio’s woodlands.  Of them, the red-headed woodpecker might be the most stunning.  It has a deep, blood-red head and neck, a white belly and a regal, black back with large, white wing patches.  The attentive birder should listen for its call—a rapid, angry rattle—which often gives the bird’s location away.  Despite the red head being the most defining characteristic of the adult bird, juvenile red-headed woodpeckers have totally gray heads.  This is why it is imperative to know the entire life history of a species when trying to identify any bird.  Telling apart all the female warblers or juvenile gulls is still something that keeps me up at night.

As we move further into the white pine forest we find ourselves surrounded by dozens of woodpeckers.  Dr. Miles explains that the red-headed woodpecker is a relative of the acorn woodpecker, a western species famous for living in a life long family unit.  Our red-headed woodpeckers appear to be several families with newly fledged young in the midst of a territorial dispute.

We walk along under the feuding families, red and black flashing overhead.  Most of the birds we observe are juveniles.  Their call is a weaker more strained version of the adults’.  “They’re just learning to be woodpeckers,” Dr. Miles chuckles.  A fitting first birding trip for our class of beginner birders.  I look up at the gray-headed red-heads and smile as a young bird stashes an acorn in the wood of a dead tree.  

Despite their abundance in Zaleski, the red-headed woodpecker is listed as near threated by the IUCN Red List.  Populations have declined by some 70% from 1966 to 2014.  The felling of suitable dead trees is thought to be linked to their decline.  It is positive to see the species maintaining a stronghold right here in our own backyards.  In October, our class will be traveling down to South Carolina in search of an even rarer species of woodpecker, the endangered red-cockaded woodpecker.  With any luck we will find it and more.

Thanks for reading and keep living the field life!

Ryan