Friday Field Notes: The (un)Common Redpoll

A few days ago, an unusual bird showed up in my backyard. I could tell immediately from its size, shape, and plumage that it was a small finch. Overall, it was a fairly plain bird, with plenty of brown stripes and a noticeable white wing bars, not far different from a Pine Siskin. But, whenever the bird turned its head in my direction, it revealed a bright, slightly iridescent red patch just above its eyes. It could only be one thing: a Common Redpoll!

The name is a bit of a misnomer. Sure, if you live in a mountain valley in Alaska or northern Canada, you might see Redpolls as frequently as Chipping Sparrows. But in Montana, these birds only show up sporadically in the winter. A member of the "winter finch" clan, the Cornell Lab of Ornithology describes Common Redpolls as "erratic" migrators, sometimes ending up in places as unusual Arkansas or New Jersey. In irruption years (which this year is certainly shaping up to be), Common Redpolls, along with a variety of other finches and sparrows (and birds of prey - who can forget last year's Snowy Owl surprise?!) move far south of what would be considered their typical range, driven by a scarcity of food.

A Common Redpoll in winter plumage.

Year-round, redpolls are incredibly social birds, sometimes found in flocks of 300 individuals. Even during breeding season, it is not uncommon for multiple pairs of redpolls to nest fairly close together and show a lack of territoriality. Redpolls feed almost exclusively on seeds, and hence, are likely to show up where there is a bird feeder. To increase your chances of attracting a redpoll to your backyard, tempt these birds with thistle or nyjer seeds.

Have you seen a Common Redpoll or any other surprising visitors this winter? Be sure to let us know if you do!

Friday Field Notes: Winter's Other World

There's a whole other world out there that only exists in winter. The arrival of snow literally creates an entirely new habitat not found at any other time of the year. Naturalists know this place as the "subnivean environment."

While we might just see snow as powdery white stuff that accumulates as winter goes on, there is actually a lot happening underneath the surface. And indeed, the word subnivean, which means "under the snow" in Latin, suggests just that. As snow accumulates, it undergoes a variety of transformations: it compacts, melts, and refreezes. All of these changes form what we commonly think of as the snowpack. The snowpack can contain a variety of different layers, some hard, some soft, some deep, some shallow. These layers provide opportunities for small animals to create burrows, tunnels, and other structures that would be much more difficult to maintain in the soil, which is typically frozen throughout the winter.

Small mammals, like mice, voles, and shrews, likely could not survive outside of the subnivean environment. In addition to providing physical space for them to live in, the subnivean provides critical insulation. While the world above the surface is exposed to high winds and temperatures in the negatives, life underneath the snow remains a relatively cozy 32 degrees Fahrenheit! The other benefit of living in the snowpack is the protection it offers from predators.

Of course, these small mammals aren't totally safe. Have you ever seen this?

A fox dives into dinner head-first.

Foxes - as well as coyotes and some owls - are capable of hearing the movement of rodents underneath the snow. They wait patiently, honing in to the animals' exact location. And then, they pounce (or in the case of the owl, swoop). Extraordinary, no?

And then of course, there's this:

A marten emerges empty handed.

American Martens, like most other weasels, have never been afraid of digging in and getting a little dirty (or snowy?). Instead of listening for rodent movement and using stealth to catch their prey, they rely on power and speed to ramble through the snow and grab critters.

Next time you're out skiing or snowshoeing, imagine all the things that are going on beneath your feet! The snow isn't just snow; it's another world.

Friday Field Notes: Winter Birding

The osprey are on winter break in the Bahamas, and the warblers are even further south, soaking up the sun and warm temperatures of central America. As for us? Well, we are faced with the reality of our first significant snow storm of the year in Montana. Winter is long and cold in our great state, and that's why many of the more than 300 avian species that call Montana home for part of the year pack their bags and hit the road (or should I say the airways?). Despite this, winter can still be an incredible time to go birding. Here are some tips to help get you through the cold, snowy months ahead:

- Put out a feeder! The bears are just about gone, and birds are now having to look harder to find critical winter food sources. Once one bird finds your feeder, they all do, and they will stay as long as you keep it filled. Platform feeders are a fantastic option - they attract a wide range of birds, from chickadees to grosbeaks, and they provide an excellent opportunity to get a close-up look at the bird.

- Go for a walk in an area with lots of deciduous trees. Birders often joke during spring migration, "If only those darn leaves didn't get in the way of the birds!" Well, now that the leaves have fallen off the trees, they don't. Brilliant, colorful birds like Evening Grosbeaks, Cedar Waxwings, and House Finches who spend much of their time in trees and shrubs are now strikingly obvious, and the views are unobstructed.

- Don't forget about water. The rich, diverse riparian habitat that lines our streams and rivers and attracts dozens of species in the spring and summer is still filled with birds in the winter. Iconic birds like American Dippers, Great Blue Herons, and Bald Eagles never leave, and winter can be as good a time as any to view them.

- When the snow rolls in, so do the birds. Significant snow storms push birds that typically spend their time at higher elevations (Clark's Nutcrackers, Steller's Jays, and Gray Jays, among others) lower into valleys. Additionally, the snow-covered ground makes it difficult for seed-eating birds (finches, sparrows) to find the food they need. Suddenly, your feeder becomes a wild bird refuge!

A flock of Evening Grosbeaks weathers a storm.

An Evening Grosbeak

What are your winter birding tips?  What birds have you been seeing?  Share your observations in the comments!

Friday Field Notes: Election Edition

As election season "bears" down on us and Americans head to the polls to cast their votes, it can seem as if the weight of the world is suspended above us, hanging by a tiny thread. To cut this tension, ease the panic, and introduce some comic relief, I give you this:

A Naturalist's Interpretation of Election Season

DISCLAIMER: What follows is incredibly cheesy humor that only a naturalist will find even remotely amusing. There is absolutely nothing political about this cartoon whatsoever--just some chuckles for nature nerds like me!

Friday Field Notes: Who's Watching Hoooo(m)?

Have you ever had the experience of coming face to face with an owl?

Incredible birds for a variety of reasons, including their elusive nature, adept hunting skills, and haunting calls, owls have long captured the human imagination. Stories about owls have been passed down for thousands of years in numerous cultures, and even today we assign them meaning (mystery, cunning, wisdom) and relate to them in profound ways.

What I have been most touched by, however, is the way in which owls seem to gaze back at us with the same intent with which we look upon them. The thrill of seeing a bear or moose or eagle is undeniable, but these animals often do little more than acknowledge our presence before dismissing us as a non-threat and moving on to whatever they were doing before we disturbed them. Owls, by comparison, appear to stare directly at us, appear to be going through a series of complex thoughts and judgements. I have sometimes felt as if the bird is actually peering directly into my soul. Sure, many animals display extreme senses of curiosity (especially American Martens), but owls are doing more than checking out what we're up to; they're breaking us down and sizing us up. Maybe I am anthropomorphizing a bit too much; but maybe owls are even more intelligent and complex than we give them credit for.

A Great Gray Owl sizing me up.

I am led to believe that owls watch and study us in ways most other animals do not, ways that we do not truly understand. This places us in unusual position, one in which many people would not be comfortable:  as humans, we are usually the ones placing other animals under the microscope, not vice versa. So the experience of coming face to face with an owl (especially a large one) can be fairly humbling and eye-opening.

A Snowy Owl checking me out from a somewhat unusual vantage point: a roof.

Standing eye-to-eye with an owl stirs up ancient and primal emotions, transporting us to times when we were a bit closer to the world around us. It forces us to re-evaluate our assumptions about nature. It poses much larger questions, none more relevant than: Who's watching whom?

Friday Field Notes: Photo Essay: Fall in Montana

With colors of red, orange, and gold everywhere and the cool, rainy weather bearing down on us, it is evident that things are changing. Long gone are the warm temperatures and sweet (and smoky) smells of summer. It appears that sooner, rather than later, we will be immersed in a world of white. But for now, we can revel in the fact that it is Fall in Montana.

The icy cold waters of Avalanche Creek in Glacier National Park
continue to carve through ancient rock.

Aspens paint the hillsides gold near East Glacier.

A grizzly print high in the Absarokas, an indication that these creatures are moving up in elevation
to feed on critical fall food sources like whitebark pine seeds.

Rattlesnake Creek takes on many moods on an overcast day.

Much-needed moisture relieves the strain of a hot, dry summer throughout the West.

Sunlight slices through storm clouds to pit a shimmering aspen
against the backdrop of an ominous sky.

Red meets gold in the understory of the subalpine forest.

A beaver works diligently to ensure all is in place before yet another make-or-break winter arrives.

The sight of snow atop rocky peaks reminds us that winter is never too far away.

A group of American Coots gather on Lake McDonald as they prepare for winter.

Stuart Peak Saturday Venture

Stuart Peak long held its spot at Number 4 on my “Day Hikes to Conquer” list.  So, this past Saturday while several Missoulians cheered for the Griz to win, I packed up my dogs and headed into the Rattlesnake for what was to be an adventurous and rewarding journey.

To my surprise the trailhead was packed with cars at 8 a.m., but I did not see a soul until the descent.  The trek to Stuart peak begins a half-mile off of the main Rattlesnake Trailhead and meanders along Spring Gulch for about three miles.  The dogs were gallivanting around the woods and I was thinking this was the best Saturday morning activity I had done in awhile.  Rain dripped from the leaves, creating a very mystical ambiance.  The forest always seems somewhat magical when blanketed with fog and heavy with water. 

After making my way up Spring Gulch, I followed the trail as it wound its way around a mountainside.  I have been told that one can see a large portion of the Rattlesnake and Missoula, but the thick layer of clouds prohibited such views. Up, up, up, I went and continued to be enveloped in fog and rain.  I will note here that the majestic, magical quality I mentioned before now took on a whole new meaning as I was pelted with hail brought over from the relentless eastern wind.  Regardless of the changing weather conditions, I continued following my dogs, who were still having the times of their lives despite being soaking wet.

At last I reached the wilderness boundary, where hastily I took a photo and continued onward.  I hiked for about two more miles until my spirits were tested.  There is no direct path up to Stuart Peak, so navigating up the side of the mountain is something you should know you are going to do before beginning.  I slowly conquered the steep climb up to the peak and was blown away by the vie--or lack thereof, in this case.  On a cloudless day, Stuart Peak affords a hiker the view of the adjacent peaks and the Missoula valley, but on a day such as this, it looks like you are the only person left in the world.  As far as I could see there was nothing but clouds.  Twenty feet below the peak, clouds crept in and covered everything.  While seeing the landscape would have been breathtaking, being atop a landscape of clouds was breathtaking in its own right. 

Overall, I am overjoyed to have made the 18-mile hike to Stuart Peak and back.  I began my trek at 8 a.m. and was back in Missoula by 3.  Yet, I am none too eager to cross Stuart Peak off my list--instead I am moving it to Number 9 and saving it for a cloudless, sunny day in the future.