New England is Adorable

Tomorrow we fly back to Tucson for the long drive home, with maybe a quick stop for one more bird. We had a few misses on this trip, but lots of success, and so we stand content with the results.

As we've been driving around quite a bit (about 1200 miles on the rental car in 7 days!), we've seen a fair amount of the New England area, from Connecticut up to Maine. And, for the most part, the thing that stands out is that it's so darn cute!

Towns have olde British-y names like "Peabody" or "Manchester-by-the-Sea", and people live on streets like "Old Straitsmouth Way" or "Bartholomew Avenue". Roads are gently curved and hilly, with rarely a straight line. There are Brooks, Necks, and Runs, and communities are called "Villages".

Lawns are impeccably manicured, and fences tend to be of the white picket variety.  Houses are clad in weather-aged shingles, or neatly painted clapboards of gray with white trim, both of which contrast pleasingly with the pale blue sky of a clear, cold winter's day. And even a modest-sized home is called a "cottage".

Nearly every angle presents a postcard-quality view.

But as quaint as this is, and "quaint" is very appropriately used in this context, there are a few downsides that we've discovered from spending a total of about 2 weeks here this year:

1. Weather, specifically the Winter weather. We saw a sign today along a road that ran right beside a beach which said, "Caution: Drifting Snow". Snow drifts? Next to the ocean? That's just wrong. And it gets cold... despite being about the same latitude as Medford, OR, the average high temperature in Boston doesn't get much above 40F, and the lows are typically below 30F for the entire winter. Between the frigid temperatures and snow (remember, Boston received nearly 11 feet of snow last year!), many businesses, from stores to inns to restaurants, just shut down during the winter, some from November until May.
2. Accents. For some reason, the New England dialect just grates on my nerves. If I never heard another, "Pahk the cah ovah theyah," I wouldn't feel that my life was worse in any way. 
3. Lobster. OMG. It's so overplayed. Every corner store sells lobster, and it shows up on menus in odd ways because every restaurant must offer lobster but the chefs are bored to tears with Lobster Rolls and Lobster Bisque. So, how about lobster in an omelette? Or lobster ice cream? And, of course, you can purchase lobster t-shirts and lobster Christmas ornaments and even lobster-themed children's books.

Despite this, I highly recommend a trip here, especially if you take time to visit some of the museums and historical sites to learn about the history of this country. Just don't come in the summer,... May or October are so much less crowded.

Now, if you came here for a birding update, I will satisfy your vicarious curiosity: We found two new birds yesterday, both Life Birds for us. A flock of Purple Sandpipers perched and dozed in the sun on a seaweed-covered rock, and we were able to get within about 6 feet of them without scaring them off. And thanks to more eBird Detective Work, we discovered a King Eider, although it was about 1000 feet away and sleeping, so we didn't get the best of views of that one. I guess that will be an excuse to come back next year!

Off to have some lobster cocoa before bed,
Me

Wild Goose Chase, Part 2: The Lon Guisland Express

Happy Thanksgiving! ¿Todavía ama pavo?

I hope your Thanksgiving was well spent with favored friends, family, or both, or neither if that's how you roll, and at the very least it was pleasantly calorie-laden.

Our Thanksgiving weekend has been extremely busy, and not due to the usual preparation of feasts, or shopping expeditions, or finally thinking about taking down last year's Christmas lights from the front porch before you realize that it's time to put them up again and feeling clever at your efficiency. Or whatever normal people do.

First, where are we? We spent the past few days in a wonderful place, Provincetown, MA, where the Mayflower landed in 1620, on the very far tip of Cape Cod:

The key thing to note about P-town, and the reason we made it our destination, is that it is located about 20 miles offshore of most of the rest of the continent, so it's a good place to look for ocean birds that you might otherwise require a boat trip to find.

[Aside: If you're from the Left Coast or geographically challenged, other key things you might notice include:

1. There are a lot of famous places all crowded together near Boston, like Salem and Plymouth. That's kind of cool.
2. I've heard of Martha's Vineyard and Nantucket. And those places are islands? Seriously?
3. But Rhode Island isn't really an island? That's messed up.]

So, our last three days have involved rising around 6AM East Coast time, so we could get outside by dawn, trekking to key locations, then poring over flocks of birds for ones we need:

Most all the birds were a few hundred yards offshore, so most of our "birding" was hunching over a scope, with one eye closed, peering at the mass while waiting for the waves to move them up and down for better visibility.

The number of new birds we saw for all this effort? Exactly zero. So while we had a great time on the Cape, the time was a bust as far as birds go. 

So, yesterday we heard about this goose... Yes, another rare visitor to North America, and this Barnacle Goose had been reported for a couple days in a row on Long Island, NY. The site was about 4.5 hours south of Cape Cod with a ferry ride (ANOTHER BOAT!), not a terrible distance given what we've done so far, and we've never been to Long Island, so...one hotel and one ferry reservation later, we were headed south, to Greenport, NY.

Rising at our usual pre-dawn time this morning, we guessed at which of two reported sites it might be at, and started scanning through hundreds of Canada Geese again...and voila!

Mr. Goose is the black and white bird right in the middle.

Woohoo! And off we went, to catch our ferry back to Connecticut.

[Aside #2: We wondered what came first, the Goose Barnacle or the Barnacle Goose, why their names were so similar. Long story short, the bird was named first, and in the 1100's somebody claimed they grew from driftwood and matured underwater during the winters in the form of a critter they named the Goose Barnacle. And we thought drugs were a problem TODAY...]

After striking out on a couple of other locations, we decided to chase a nearby report of a Black-headed Gull. If we didn't it, we would have to trek hundreds of miles south and east to Maryland or New Jersey, or scratch it off the year list, so we really wanted this one. Rain was starting to fall, but gulls live on water, so they wouldn't mind a sprinkle, right?

In eBird, the close bird was reported in two places, one being in the center of the town of Westerly, RI, and the other was about 5 miles away on the coast at a state beach. Fortunately, the town report had a comment: "Seen near the main parking lot with other gulls".  Google Earth views of Westerly didn't show anything we would call a "main parking lot", so we guessed that it was mismarked and headed for the state beach. (Doing a Big Year does require more than a little detective work!)

Arriving at Misquamicut State Beach as the rain picked up, we found this:

Why do gulls like to stand in parking lots? Are they just fascinated by cars? Do they secretly aspire to become valets? 

And a quick scan of the flock found this!

The Erudite Birder will acknowledge the deep red bill and legs, light back, black spot in front of and behind the eye, and dark wingtips, all hallmarks of a Black-headed Gull. The rest of you will be asking, "Why doesn't it have a black head?" To which I will say, "To make blog readers ask questions!"

Now, after having visited four states in one day, we're settled near Boston, getting ready for one more shot at some of those coastal birds tomorrow. 

Phew!

Call Me Ishmael

Some days ago—never mind how long precisely—having little to no time to waste, and no particular birds to look for on the shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see a watery part of the world. It is a way I have of finding new birds, and maybe other new experiences. Whenever I find myself with Warbler Neck; whenever I tire of standing for hours on the side of a marsh looking for the bird that never comes; whenever the notion of another 200-mile-drive-to-chase-a-bird-that-probably-already-left fails to quicken my pulse; and especially whenever dogs off leash chasing birds get such an upper hand of me, that it requires strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately chasing down that dog owner and methodically wrapping that empty leash in his hand around his own neck—then, I account it high time to get to the sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for striking people with rolled-up newspapers. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all birders in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings toward the ocean as me.

Now, when I say that I am in the habit of going to sea when eBird reports nothing on land, or Rare Bird Alert emails run dry, I do not mean to have it inferred that I ever go to sea as a Passenger. Passengers get sea-sick—miss the most interesting sights—do not enjoy themselves much, as a general thing;—no, I never go as a Passenger; nor, though I am something of a salt, do I ever go to sea as a Commodore, or a Captain, or a Cook.

No, when I go to sea, I go as a Birder, right at the prow, aloft to the upper deck, quickly to the aft, binoculars at the ready and camera poised to fire at an instant. True, the Passengers obstruct my path and block my lens, causing me to jump from spar to spar, like a grasshopper in a May meadow. And at first, this sort of thing is unpleasant enough. It touches on a nerve, the same one triggered by loose dogs and wailing children that unleashes the sharp whack with the newspaper. But even this wears off in time.

And so, quitting the good nation of oh-so-polite Canada, I duly arrived in Bar Harbor, on the rocky coast of Maine. It was a Monday evening in August. The sun, slipping below the mountains earlier and earlier this time of year, had nearly settled for the evening, bringing out tourists hungry for the day's catch; kissed by the grill or hugged by a light batter and fried, as is the diner's preference. A warm wind whispered quietly from the east, and the humidity was fair, portending a fine day for sailing to come.

Tuesday was indeed mild, as the Passengers shuffled merrily through the serpentine aisle, demarcated by stout braided rope, toward the ship; the Atlantic Adventurer, they called her. She was a twin-hulled craft, a catamaran, with dual diesel engines mounted low, and massive steel propellers ready to churn the water with the force of a thousand horses. Built for speed and clearly capable of achieving her birthright, the Adventurer would get us to sea with haste.

Slowly though, our Captain backed from the dock, and began a modest glide through the harbor, past massively ornate summer "cottages" of the New England gentry, a lighthouse on cormorant-covered rocks, and thousands of bobbing, multi-colored buoys, each one the marker of an unfortunate lobster's future demise.

"Passengers!" the Narrator announced over the PA system, and "Birders!" I added for myself, "We are off to find a whale!" Then, the Captain unleashed his multitude of petroleum-fueled stallions, the Adventurer's nose tipped higher, and she sliced cleanly through the glassy waters across the Gulf of Maine.

While the Passengers sat inside, doing the things that Passengers do, the Birders were on the prow, alert, aware, and actively scanning the seas for signs of life. And those looks were rewarded amply, as Gannets drifted lazily overhead, Shearwaters swooped, and Storm-petrels pattered on the water, gently dipping their toes into the sea just enough to entice a curious fish for a look. From below, dozens of Atlantic White-sided Dolphins in small groups breached the surface, their dorsal fins projecting first like a flag announcing their arrival, sleek bodies pushing aside the water for a brief ray of sunshine, before concealing themselves again in their blanket of blue ocean.

For an hour we cruised, then another, but not a single whale had risen from the depths for a tell-tale gulp of air. The Passengers grew restless as their unrequited anticipation abated with every passing minute. The Captain peered through his windshield, steadily guiding the boat back and forth across the feeding grounds, ready to spin his wheel in any direction at a hint of his whale. The Narrator scanned from her crow's nest in all directions and back again, eyes shaded by the back of her hand against the sun. And the Birders admired the multitudes of shearwaters, one in particular flying alongside the Adventurer for several seconds as if testing her flying strength against the boat's engines.

Suddenly, the Narrator came alive.

"Thar she blows! Thar she blows! A whale! A whale! At two o'clock from the ship!" [ed. Note that she didn't actually shout, "Thar she blows", although she should have]

The Black Whale! But what kind of Black Whale? It rolled to one side and began flapping its flipper, as though waving Hello to the boat.



And the announcer cried, "Oh my! Folks, look at that flipper! That makes it a Right Whale! They were nearly hunted to extinction, and now only maybe 500 still live in the entire world. This is an amazing find!"

The Right Whale was so named because whalers considered it the "right" whale to hunt: it has lots of baleen and blubber, so produce excellent returns, and was buoyant enough due to all the fat that it floats after being killed.

As an endangered species, the Captain maintained a respectful distance from the playful whale, who for more than 20 minutes, alternated between poking its head above the water, slapping its tail, and flapping flippers.

Was the whale really playing? Was he just trying to wipe off barnacles and other parasites? Or was he threatening the Captain for some past transgression that only the two of them knew about, and that the Captain refused to acknowledge? We will never know.

The boat turned toward shore, steaming furiously back to pick up the next Passengers.


Epilogue
The drama's done. What thence?

Upon returning to land, we sprinted back south to near Portland for another shot at Nelson's Sparrow. That sparrow is a little brat. Earlier in the week, a guy had reported them on two separate occasions at this marsh, but we didn't get a peep. The next morning before heading to Boston Logan, we tried again with similar results, but did manage to encounter a migrating Philadelphia Vireo, which was nice.

Now, we're home, poring over historical bird reports as we plan our next outing. For the first time all year, I really have no idea where we're going next!

Until I have more news,
Me

It's the Time of the Season

Since we arrived in Massachusetts a couple of days ago, one thing has been abundantly clear: Northeasterners like their beaches! Holy moly, are the beaches crowded and traffic terrible on weekends near the coast. Massachusetts isn't even that populated of a state, and yet people are packed like sardines on every stretch of sand or sand-like substance they can find. Remind me to avoid this in the future...

Another thing we've noticed is that it's that time of the year again. This year's chicks are all grown up and ready to go out on their own, and their parents are ready to relax somewhere further south for the winter. This is great for the birds, but bad for us. We're finally hitting that time of the year where, if we don't get a bird now, we likely aren't going to have another shot. This S-U-C-K-S, sucks!!

For instance, we had Atlantic Puffin on our target list when we came out here, only to discover that the boat trip we were going to take to find said puffin stopped sailing about a week ago because puffin numbers have dropped so low. C-R-A-P, whatever that spells!! But, to catch you up on the past few days...

Friday morning, we took a quick trip to a St. Louis park to chase a reported Yellow-bellied Flycatcher. After wandering around a huge but beautiful park for an hour, we took avail of the Internet and a few local birders. With that help and only 15 minutes before we had to leave for the airport, we managed a brief but satisfying glimpse of the flycatcher and were on our way to Boston.

Saturday morning, we made our way up the East coast from Boston, starting at Plum Island/Parker River National Wildlife Refuge. Between finding three of our targets before lunch and a huge Lobster Roll, we were feeling pretty good. But then, the pitchers started throwing strikes.

We decided to chase one of the last Black-billed Cuckoos reported recently, about 90 minutes' drive inland. Upon reaching the report area, we even randomly ran into the people who had reported it! But even with their help, we could not track it down.

Sunday, we intended to drive up into the White Mountains to chase Bicknell's Thrush. However, both of us were coming down with a cold, so we decided that a 5-mile hike with a 2,000' elevation gain for a slim chance of a glimpse of the bird probably wasn't prudent.

So, we drove back toward the coast, to a preserve where we'd seen Black-billed Cuckoos before. But, nearly an hour of searching didn't turn up even a sniff of a cuckoo,

Then, we proceeded toward Scarborough Marsh, near Portland, ME, due to many reports of Nelson's Sparrow from there. But, following our chain of luck, it turned out that a TRIATHLON was being run that day, and the path where the sparrows had been reported was part of the running route. We gave it the Ol' College Try but there was just too much activity to find anything.

Next, north about 20 miles to a marsh where several Nelson's had been reported THAT MORNING! But, we got there around noon, and with the heat of the day, the sparrows were quiet.

So, in lieu of a birding trip, we tried to schedule a whale watch out of Bar Harbor on Monday to get out into the ocean a ways, but their boat was booked solid. They were open on Tuesday, so we booked that, and then hunted for something to do on Monday.

Turns out, many of the birds we wanted to see were reported from the ferry that sails from Blacks Harbour, New Brunswick, Canada, to Grand Manan Island, about 20 miles off the mainland. Given that we love boats (not!) and adventure (well, ok), we decided to make that our destination.

So, we embarked on a 3-hour drive to a tiny village in the northeast corner of Maine called Lubec. It was near a ferry that would take us across the harbor into mainland Canada in relatively short time, so seemed like a good route. Plus, we had time to visit Quoddy Head State Park, the easternmost park in North America! Lubec is also home to the Easternmost pub, grocery, laundromat, and, it turns out, every business in town is the Easternmost of its kind.

After getting up at 530AM Eastern, we drove across the border (Hi, Canada!) to the ferry, only to find that THE FERRY DIDN'T RUN UNTIL 9AM and we would miss our boat to Manan!!! Whoops! So, we did a U-turn, went back across the border, and drove 60 miles around the bay to enter Canada from the mainland (Hi again, Canada! Long time, no see!), and then drive 30 miles to the ferry. We made it with 5 minutes to spare!

The ferry trip was fantastic, especially since they only charge for the return trip (You're awesome, Canada!). We found three target birds, including our first-ever sighting of Atlantic Puffin, despite what all the haters said!

So, maybe we struck out on the cuckoo, American Woodcock, and a few other birds. But, we're now at 650 for the year, which ain't bad!

Tomorrow, we do our Whale Watch trip to hopefully find a storm-petrel or some other rarity, and then start heading south toward Nelson's Sparrow land again. We return home on Wednesday, at which point we'll re-evaluate our plans in light of current list and migration being well underway.

Man, this Big Year is complicated to plan!

Are Lobster Rolls that special when even McDonalds here offers a Lobster Roll?
Me