Este podcast es el segundo en una serie. Tendrá más sentido si lees/escuchas el primero, Una voz familiar muy lejos de mi tierra, antes. ¡Disfruta esta historia!

Abril de 2025, el occidente de Montana, EU. Los sonidos de la primavera en el bosque…

Un carpintero elegante (Sphyrapicus thyroideus) macho golpetea el tronco de un enebro (Juniperus scopulorum) arbustivo mientras la luz de la tarde noche se disminuye. Vuela a un poste de madera en la orilla del camino de gravillas que sube hacia el oeste por el bosque. Tamborilea levemente.

Es la temporada reproductiva de los búhos y tecolotes. Más tarde esta misma noche, estoy cocinando mi cena en mi pequeña estufa de acampar cuando un tecolote oyamelero norteño (Aegolius acadicus) empieza a cantar. Abandono mi cena y agarro mi micrófono.

Es una noche fresca, aproximadamente 5 grados Celsius. La luna creciente está a tres cuartos al sur. Escucho en silencio y el tecolote diminuto sigue cantando por varios minutos, invisible entre los árboles oscuros de ayarín (Pseudotsuga menziesii).

Ortigas y el tupinambo

Recién llegado desde Oaxaca, he traído toda la inspiración que me ha dado el abuelo Teo por la comida sustentable y local. Ya la mezclo con mi trabajo como biólogo de campo. Cosecho hojas de ortiga (Urtica dioica) para cocinar mientras un carpintero nuca roja (Sphyrapicus nuchalis) tamborilea sobre la rama de un álamo.

En el jardín de mi mamá, hay muchas plantas y malezas comestibles: diente de león (Taraxacum officinale), ajo, cebolla perenne, las hojas abundantes de la campánula (Campanula spp., incluso C. rapunculoides). Los brotes tiernos del lúpulo (Humulus lupulus), la primera vez que los he probado. Mi mamá y yo cosechamos los tubérculos del tupinambo (Helianthus tuberosus) con unos amigos y hago un curtido fermentado de ellos con cebolla, jengibre, pimienta negra y jalapeño. Compro carne molida de un rancho local, Oxbow Cattle Company, donde el ganado se alimenta de zacate sin recibir granos.

Los saltaparedes cholino del oeste (Troglodytes pacificus) están cantando en el bosque y encuentro a una pareja de carboneros dorsicastaños (Poecile rufescens) excavando una cavidad para un nido en un abeto muerto. Me como tostadas que la abuela mandó conmigo y pienso en Oaxaca.

El tecolote ojos oscuros

Durante nuestras videollamadas, Carito me muestra el jardín en nuestra casa. Los tomates que sembré durante el invierno ya tienen fruta y el maracuyá está creciendo. Durante un viaje de trabajo para acampar en el noroeste lejano de Montana al comienzo de mayo, pongo lumbre cerca de una terracería en un bosque selectivamente talado de pino ponderosa (Pinus ponderosa) y sofrío hongos de gírgola (Pleurotus ostreatus) que encontré en la mañana. Un tecolote ojos oscuros (Psiloscops flammeolus), recién llegado desde su distribución invernal mal conocida en México y Centroamérica, canta brevemente en el fondo.

Mis comidas en el campo típicamente son ramen de arroz que cocino en mi pequeña estufa de gas. Durante esta temporada, normalmente encuentro unos puñados de ortiga para añadir.

El humedal y la lechuza

A mediados de mayo, hago un viaje largo al consulado mexicano más cercano en Boise, Idaho para pedir una visa mexicana. En el camino de regreso, escucho a búhos cornudos (Bubo virginianus) y grullas grises (Antigone canadensis) al anochecer desde el borde de un humedal cerca de Carey, Idaho. Mientras el cielo oscurece más y los gansos canadienses mayores (Branta canadensis) se preparan para descansar, me emociona muchísimo vislumbrar a un búho pálido volando en silencio sobre el humedal. El búho se zambulle entre los tules, obviamente cazando algo. Espero con atención. Medio minuto después, emerge de las sombras y vuela al norte, pasando cerca de mí. Logro ver bien su disco facial en forma de corazón en las tinieblas: una lechuza americana (Tyto furcata).

Más ortigas

Acampo esa noche en un cañón seco y rocoso y me despierto en la mañana con el leve cloqueo de las perdices chukar (Alectoris chukar), aves parecidas a gallinas que habitan en laderas áridas y pedregosas. Una calandria cejas naranjas (Icterus bullockii) canta a todo volumen desde los sauces. Por lo general, sin embargo, me da escalofríos escuchar qué tan silencioso está el cañón por ser mediados de mayo. Ni se escucha ni se ve el ajetreo de pájaros haciendo escala en su migración como lo estaba esperando.

Encuentro un parche grande y sano de ortigas donde un manantial brota de las rocas y corto una bolsa de ortigas para llevar.

Más tarde el mismo día, hago una escala por un embalse de riego donde una parvada grande de pinzones serranos (Haemorhous cassinii), 70 de ellos, está alimentándose de los frutos verdes y tiernos de los olmos de Siberia (Ulmus pumila), los cuales se parecen a hojitas. Me uno a los pinzones serranos y recojo una bolsa de frutos de olmo también. Esa noche, mi ramen tiene no sólo ortigas, sino también frutos de olmo.

Esperando, intentando y fracasando

Oaxaca, México, abril de 2026. Un víreo de Bell (Vireo bellii) canta desde los arbustos densos de un campo abandonado. Pronto va a estar migrando al norte hacia algún lugar en una distribución reproductiva que se extiende desde el norte de México hasta Dakota del Sur e Indiana.

Los temas aquí son muy similares, pero muchas cosas son diferentes. Cultivar nuevas plantas es un trabajo duro y sudado, un trabajo de esperar, intentar y fracasar. El ajonjolí (Sesamum indicum) no germina. A los tomates se les enrollan las hojas con descontento—tal vez sea un virus. Termino destrozando las plantas. La mitad del té limón (Cymbopogon citratus) que trasplanto del jardín de una amiga se muere.

Un día encuentro a un burro paseando dentro de la arenilla y lo espanto. Eso inicia un proyecto importante de encerrar el terreno, cortando palos de bambú y amarrándolos a los árboles en los límites. El abuelo me muestra que el bejuco tronador, cuyas enredaderas he pasado semanas limpiando, es fuerte y flexible cuanto recién cortado, bueno para amarrar palos.

Las arrieras

Una mañana, algo le ha quitado las hojas de la mitad de los frijoles. Todavía no he terminado de encerrar; primero le culpo al burro, después sospecho que es un venado. Sé que ninguna cerca de bambú va a desalentar a esos herbívoros tenaces.

La siguiente mañana algunos de los rábanos y el brócoli chino han sido mordisqueados a ras del suelo. Corto palos de bambú para encerrar con frustrada incapacidad. El próximo día, me doy cuenta de unas hojas verdes que han sido cuidadosamente colocadas en el suelo debajo de un frijol defoliado, pedazos cortados de ellas en curvas precisas. Ahora sí sé qué se está comiendo los frijolares. Ni es venado ni burro; es la infame arriera, la voraz (pero ecológicamente fascinante) hormiga cortadora de hojas. Regreso en la noche con una linterna, observando las arrieras mientras un pájaro estaca norteño (Nyctibius jamaicensis) da su canto áspero y espantoso desde el bambú cerca del río. Sigo los caminos de las arrieras a través del monte, leo sobre su biología y trato de aprender cómo soportarlas o manejarlas sin envenenar al ecosistema.

Flores de calabaza y mangos

Aún así, después de todo, la mayor parte de esta diversidad de plantas está creciendo. La calabaza está floreciendo: cosecho flores masculinas para que Carito pueda hacer quesadillas de flor de calabaza. Una mañana cocino huevos con hojas de rábano, brotes de brócoli chino y ejotes cubanos (Vigna unguiculata). Un día después, la arriera ha cortado todas las hojas de rábano que quedaban. Los primeros chiles mirasol casi están maduros, y el primer maíz azul que sembré ya alcanza mi cintura.

Por el momento, sin embargo, la mayoría de la comida local que comemos viene de plantas que no sembramos. Hay cocos de unos árboles semiabandonados por la costa, mangos del barrio y de nuestros amigos. Naranjas del naranjal que sembró el abuelo Teo, árboles que han vivido por décadas que él regó a mano por los primeros dos años, subiendo la ladera empinada desde el río con una cubeta.

Granatelo mexicano de día, pájaro estaca de noche

Mientras tanto, cada día trae más malas noticias de Estados Unidos, de una democracia que está siendo hecha pedazos desde adentro. Trabajo en la computadora con mi colega el biólogo Grant Hokit para construir un modelo de distribución para nuestro proyecto de investigación sobre las garrapatas de Montana que ha sido mi trabajo durante los últimos dos años. En 2027, si todo va bien, espero poder regresar a Montana y seguir estudiando garrapatas. En medio de todo, pienso en las ortigas, campánulas y hongos de Montana, en los tecolotes oyameleros y en el canto del saltapared cholino del oeste.

Y mientras tanto, una calandria castaña (Icterus spurius) que va rumbo al norte canta desde un humedal en la costa mientras miles de gaviotas de Franklin (Leucophaeus pipixcan) migratorias hacen escala donde el Río Copalita se reúne con el Océano Pacífico. Por la arenilla, un granatelo mexicano (Granatellus venustus) canta de día, un pájaro estaca norteño de noche. Siembro malanga (Colocasia esculenta), ñame (Dioscorea alata), chaya (Cnidoscolus aconitifolius) y tomates. Y cada día, el maíz, calabaza y las plataneras siguen creciendo entre los frijoles defoliados.

Historias relacionadas

Una voz familiar muy lejos de mi tierra

El misterio del crepúsculo: las aves y la agricultura sustentable

El canto del cáñamo americano: conociendo un mundo vegetal

Entre las tuyas gigantes: encontrando tranquilidad en el bosque lluvioso

The post El tecolote y las arrieras appeared first on Wild With Nature.

This podcast is the second in a series. It will make more sense if you read/listen to the first one, A familiar voice a long way from home, first. Happy listening!

April 2025, western Montana, USA. Sounds of spring in the forest…

A male Williamson’s sapsucker (Sphyrapicus thyroideus) taps on a shrubby juniper trunk as the evening light fades. He flies to a wood fencepost along the gravel road that climbs west into the forest, drums hesitantly.

It’s breeding season for owls. Later that same night, I’m cooking dinner over my tiny camp stove when a northern saw-whet owl (Aegolius acadicus) begins singing. I drop dinner and grab my microphone.

It’s a cool night, low 40s Fahrenheit. There’s a waxing three quarters moon to the south. I listen in silence and the tiny owl keeps singing for minutes, invisible among the dark Douglas-firs (Pseudotsuga menziesii).

Stinging nettles and jerusalem-artichokes

Recently returned from Oaxaca, I am bringing all the inspiration the abuelo Teo has given me for local food and mixing it with my field biology work. I gather stinging nettle (Urtica dioica) greens as a red-naped sapsucker (Sphyrapicus nuchalis) drums on a cottonwood branch.

In my mom’s yard, there are lots of weeds and other plants to eat: dandelion (Taraxacum officinale), garlic, walking onion, masses of tender, mild bellflower (Campanula spp., including C. rapunculoides) greens. Young shoot tips of hops (Humulus lupulus), the first time I’ve tried them. We dig jerusalem-artichokes (Helianthus tuberosus) with friends and I pickle them with walking onions, ginger, jalapeños, and black pepper. I buy grass-fed beef from Oxbow Cattle Company.

The Pacific wrens (Troglodytes pacificus) are singing in the forest and I find a pair of chesnut-backed chickadees (Poecile rufescens) excavating a nest cavity in a dead fir. I eat tostadas that the abuela sent me and I think of Oaxaca.

The flammulated owl

On our video calls, Carito shows me the garden in our house. The tomatoes I planted over the winter are bearing fruit and the passionfruit is growing. On an early May field biology trip to far northwestern Montana, I build a campfire along a two-track through a selectively logged ponderosa pine (Pinus ponderosa) stand and cook up the oyster mushrooms (Pleurotus ostreatus) that I found in the morning. A flammulated owl (Psiloscops flammeolus), recently arrived from the poorly-understood winter range in Mexico and Central America, sings briefly in the distance. 

My dinners in the field are typically rice ramen noodles that I cook over my tiny gas stove. In this season, I often add a few handfuls of stinging nettle greens.

A marsh, an owl, and more stinging nettles

In the middle of May, I make a long road trip to the nearest Mexican consulate in Boise, Idaho to request a Mexican visa. On the way back, I listen to great horned owls (Bubo virginianus) and sandhill cranes (Antigone canadensis) at dusk from the edge of a marsh near Carey, Idaho. As the sky gets darker and the Canada geese (Branta canadensis) settle in for the night, I’m absolutely delighted to glimpse a pale white owl flying silently over the marsh. The owl plunges into the bulrushes, clearly hunting. I wait, attentive. Half a minute later it emerges from the shadows and flies north, right past me. I get a good look at its heart-shaped facial disk in the deepening darkness: an American barn owl (Tyto furcata).

I camp in a dry, rocky canyon and wake up to the gentle clucking of the chukars (Alectoris chukar), a chicken-like bird of rough, arid slopes. A Bullock’s oriole (Icterus bullockii) sings at full volume from the willows. In general, though, the canyon is eerily quiet for mid-May, without the bustle of activity from songbirds passing through in their spring migration that I was expecting to find. I gather stinging nettle from a massive, healthy patch where a seep emerges from the rocks.

Later that day, I stop at an irrigation pond where a big flock of Cassin’s finches (Haemorhous cassinii), 70 of them, are feeding on the tender, leaf-like green fruits of the Siberian elms (Ulmus pumila). I join the Cassin’s finches and gather a bag of elm fruits too. That evening, my ramen features not just stinging nettle, but Siberian elm as well.

Hoping, trying, and failing

Oaxaca, Mexico, April 2026. A Bell’s vireo (Vireo bellii) sings from the dense second growth of an abandoned field. Soon it will be migrating north to a breeding range that extends from northern Mexico to South Dakota and Indiana. 

The themes here are much the same, but so many things are different. Growing new plants is a lot of hard, sweaty work, a lot of hoping, trying, and failing. The sesame (Sesamum indicum) doesn’t sprout. The tomatoes curl their leaves with displeasure—or maybe it’s a virus. Half of the lemongrass (Cymbopogon citratus) that I transplant from a friend’s garden dies.

One day I find a burro roaming around the arenilla and chase it off. That launches a major fencing project, harvesting bamboo rails and lashing them to trees along the boundaries. The abuelo shows me that the bejuco tronador vine, whose wild tangles I’ve spent weeks trimming, is strong and flexible when freshly cut, good for lashing. 

The leafcutter ants

One morning, half of the beans are completely defoliated. The perimeter fencing isn’t finished yet; first I blame the burro, then I suspect it’s deer. I know that no bamboo fence will discourage those tenacious herbivores. 

The next morning some of the radishes and Asian broccoli are nibbled to the ground. I cut bamboo fencerails in frustrated incompetence. The day after, I notice a few green leaves placed carefully on the ground under a defoliated bean plant, chunks cut out of them in tidy curves. Now I know what is eating the beans. It’s neither a deer nor a burro: it’s the dreaded arriera, the voracious (but ecologically fascinating) leafcutter ant. I return at night with a headlamp, observing the ants as a northern potoo (Nyctibius jamaicensis) sings hoarsely from the bamboo along the river. I follow their trails through viny tangles, read about their biology, try to learn how to tolerate them or manage them without poisoning the ecosystem.

Squash flowers and mangoes

Still, in the midst of everything, most of this great diversity of plants is growing. The squash is blooming: I harvest male squash blossoms so that Carito can make squash flower quesadillas. I make eggs one morning with radish greens, Asian broccoli tops and yard long beans (Vigna unguiculata). The next day, the arriera has mowed the rest of the radishes down to the ground. The mirasol chilies are almost ripe, and the first corn I planted is waist high. 

For the moment, though, most of the local food we’re eating is from plants that we didn’t tend. Coconuts from a few semi-abandoned trees along the coast. Mangos from the neighborhood and from friends. Oranges from the orchard the abuelo Teo planted, decades-old trees that he watered by hand for the first two years, carrying a bucket up the hill from the river. 

Red-breasted chat by day, potoo by night

Meanwhile, every day brings more bad news from the US, from a democracy being ripped apart from the inside. On the computer I work with my biologist colleague Grant Hokit on a niche model for our Montana tick ecology project that has been my work for the past two years. In 2027, if all goes well, I hope to return to Montana and continue studying ticks. In the midst of everything, I think of Montana’s stinging nettles, bellflowers and oyster mushrooms, northern saw-whet owls and Pacific wrens. 

And meanwhile, a northbound orchard oriole (Icterus spurius) sings from a coastal wetland while thousands of migrating Franklin’s gulls (Leucophaeus pipixcan) rest where the Río Copalita meets the Pacific Ocean. At the arenilla, a red-breasted chat (Granatellus venustus) sings by day, a northern potoo at night. I plant taro (Colocasia esculenta), yams (Dioscorea alata), chaya (Cnidoscolus aconitifolius), and tomatoes. And every day, the corn, squash, and bananas keep growing among the defoliated beans.

Related stories

A familiar voice a long way from home

Mystery of the twilight: birds at dusk and sustainable agriculture

The song of the tall dogbane: fibers at the riverbank

Among the redcedars: finding stillness in the rain-drenched forest

The post The owl and the leafcutter ants appeared first on Wild With Nature.

December 17, 2022

The snowy parking lot along the LaValle Creek Road is framed by frosty branches and a gray blanket of fog this morning. I glimpse a Townsend’s solitaire as it flushes from the hawthorns, flashing the pale stripe in its gray wings. The solitaire flutters over the grassland of the hillside, then disappears back into the hawthorns of the draw. On the other side of the road, the trees of the dry forest rise up next to us, ponderosa pines and Douglas-firs. Occasionally we can hear the yank of a red-breasted nuthatch from the conifers. Farther from the road, aspen groves mix with the conifers along the creek. A lone raven perches in a ponderosa pine beyond them.

The mix of habitats in the LaValle Creek drainage is impressive – and we’re trying to cover the area thoroughly today, censusing birds as part of the Missoula Christmas Bird Count (CBC). I’m with Steve Flood, who has led the LaValle Creek segment of the CBC for four years now. 

“You can essentially walk from sagebrush and bunchgrass, and in about a mile up here you’ll see grand firs,” Steve says.

Grand firs (Abies grandis) are moisture-loving conifers. You won’t find them around Helena, where the low-elevation forest is too dry for much except ponderosa pine and Douglas-fir. So in the LaValle Creek area, to be able to go from sagebrush to grand fir in such a short distance means that we’ve got a lot of habitat diversity. And hopefully, that will translate to a lot of birds today.

Moving up LaValle Creek

Steve and I are covering the upper portion of the LaValle Creek area. A team of three more birders – Andy Boyce, Adam Mitchell, and William Blake – are covering the lower half of LaValle Creek, where the habitat consists of open pastures and mature cottonwood forest along the stream. Originally, a single group tried to cover both areas – but splitting it in half gives us time to be more thorough.

“Now each group can do it much more leisurely, not feel like they’re having to hurry,” Steve says.

In spite of the nice-looking habitats we’re walking past – mature ponderosas and Douglas-firs, dense hawthorn thickets, smooth-barked aspen groves – the morning is off to a quiet start. Even the chickadees are muted in the fog, only making their sip contact calls. Since they aren’t giving their distinctive chickadee-dee-dee calls, we’re forced to listen and look extra-hard to try to distinguish black-capped chickadees from mountain chickadees.

The birds are quiet enough that we have time to ponder mammals as we ascend farther into the forest. We spot the tracks of weasels, snowshoe hares, a red squirrel, and a miniature bounding trail that is probably a deer mouse. The trail of a red fox merges with our own path for a time. And we know there are other creatures around, too.

“Every year we do this, there’s usually a pretty good herd of elk running around this basin somewhere,” Steve says.

A woodpecker near the ridge

Above us to the northwest is the ridge that marks the edge of the LaValle Creek watershed. This area is all privately owned, and the landowners have graciously given us access to count birds here for the CBC. We start following a sloping trail up the mountain through Douglas-fir forest with an understory of mallow ninebark (Physocarpus malvaceus). The tracks in the snow tell us that a weasel and a snowshoe hare have passed this way recently.

A red squirrel starts scolding us from high in the canopy. And then we start to hear a different sound from ahead of us. It’s a resounding, sporadic tapping, far too loud to be a nuthatch. A woodpecker is foraging. And from the sounds of it, it’s a large one.

“That’s really heavy hammering,” Steve says. “I think it’s a pileated.”

But foraging sounds can be trickier to identify than songs and calls. Is it really a pileated woodpecker? We locate the ponderosa pine snag where the woodpecker is hammering. But of course, it’s foraging on the far side of the tree, completely hidden by the trunk.

It’s so loud. It must be a pileated woodpecker, we think. Still, I start making a wide circle downhill, trying to see the far side of the snag without disturbing the woodpecker. The tapping falls silent. Then it starts up again. Finally, I see a head and a powerful beak attacking the edge of the snag. But this bird is way smaller than I was expecting, and its belly is white. It’s not a pileated.

Smaller than expected

“You aren’t going to believe this,” I tell Steve as I rejoin him farther up the slope and show him my photos. “It’s a hairy woodpecker!”

Steve’s expression shows just as much surprise as I felt when I saw the bird. We had both been almost sure it was a pileated. How can a bird as small as a hairy woodpecker make such a large noise?

“That’s a particularly resonant piece of wood!” Steve says.

We can see sun and blue sky by the time we reach the ridgeline. The valley is still filled with fog, but we’ve climbed above the clouds. The forest around us is open, with large Douglas-firs and ponderosas. It’s the sort of forest that might, possibly, support flammulated owls in the summer. One of these years, Steve hopes to return and check during the warm season for these rare, sensitive, moth-eating owls.

But in December, any flammulated owls are long-gone. In their place, we’re hearing the occasional kip-kip of a few red crossbills, drawn here by the conifer seeds.

“I had about a hundred crossbills up here last year,” Steve tells me.

Looking for owls, finding nuthatches

We’re following a fence line along the crest of the ridge now. Along the fence is a row of young, bushy Douglas-firs. Steve is peering into the firs with the razor-sharp intensity of a birder searching for northern saw-whet owls. Seeing him inspires me to do the same. But in spite of our best efforts, we don’t see any of these tiny, rodent-eating owls today. If we did, though, this is where we’d expect them.

“Whenever I find them, it’s a dense, limby patch next to an opening,” Steve says.

Past the Douglas-fir thicket, we notice a few recent elk tracks along the ridge. We can see the LaValle Creek valley unfolding below us. Steep, knapweed-covered hillsides blend into dense hawthorn thickets along the draws. Soon, we’ll be heading back down there. If we’re lucky, we may find a long-eared owl, a ruffed grouse, or some American tree sparrows among the hawthorns.

But we aren’t quite done counting birds on the ridge itself yet. We hear the hoarse calls of a single Clark’s nutcracker in the distance. Like the red crossbills, it’s probably finding conifer seeds.

Then a series of piping calls erupt from a massive ponderosa pine near us. Pygmy nuthatches! And they aren’t alone. A female downy woodpecker is tapping on a branch among the bright yellow wolf lichens (Letharia vulpina). She flies to the main trunk and continues feeding. Several white-breasted nuthatches are active here, too, almost twice the size of their pygmy nuthatch cousins. And not to be left out, three red-breasted nuthatches are flitting from branches to the main trunk and back again. These aren’t our first nuthatches of the day, but it’s exciting to see all three of Montana’s nuthatch species in a single tree.

What we see and what we don’t

We begin descending the knapweed-covered hillside, heading for the hawthorns. A few years ago, Steve found a flock of gray partridges on this hillside, but today the ranks of knapweed are still and birdless.

As always when birding, we’re paying close attention to the habitats we’re moving through. We’re noticing patterns and thinking about trends. It’s not just about what we are seeing today, but also what we aren’t. 

“No flickers yet,” I comment.

“Yeah, that’s kind of bizarre, actually,” Steve replies.

He looks back up the hill, scanning the tops of the Douglas-firs for a perching red-tailed hawk. That’s another common bird that we haven’t seen yet today. And although we’ve played tag with flocks of mountain chickadees, black-capped chickadees, and nuthatches through the forest, we haven’t seen or heard a single golden-crowned kinglet today. It’s quite a contrast from the spruce-cottonwood forest of the Swan Valley, where two days ago golden-crowned kinglets were one of the commonest birds.

The hawthorns of LaValle Creek

We split up as we get to the hawthorns, one of us taking each side of the thicket. If one of us flushes a long-eared owl, hopefully the other one will see it. But the first thickets we check are silent. Except for an occasional black-billed magpie, the birds are absent.

It’s only when we’re checking our final hawthorn draw, approaching the parking area, that we start to find some more birds. All of a sudden, it seems like the chickadees are everywhere. There are 15 or 20 of them, all black-caps, darting out of the shrubs and landing in the spotted knapweed (Centaurea stoebe). It’s a familiar pattern of activity: it appears that the chickadees are hunting Urophora gall flies again. I stop to watch them more closely. They’re actually picking individual knapweed seedheads, breaking each one off at the stem. Then they return to the hawthorns to hammer at their catch, presumably extracting some juicy gall flies.

The chickadees aren’t alone here. We spot a few dark-eyed juncos twittering nearby. Steve sees them making forays into the knapweed, too. Are the juncos also eating gall fly larvae?

A subtle brown movement among the hawthorns alerts me to the presence of a ruffed grouse. I get a good look at its sweeping crest before the grouse fades back into the thicket, a brown shadow among the tangled branches.

A few American goldfinches perch briefly in the tops of the bushes, taking off with a cascade of musical perchicoree calls.

Snow buntings and other surprises

As we meander back towards the parking area, a few American tree sparrows call out their presence. We tally a few more chickadees and nuthatches, but nothing more unusual turns up. 

As we drive down the road, we stop to compare notes with Andy, Adam, and William. What have they found among the cottonwoods and farm fields below us?

The lower LaValle Creek team has had a good day. Like us, they weren’t able to find any long-eared owls or northern saw-whet owls. But they found a prairie falcon perched along the hillside, a flock of snow buntings and horned larks among the cows of a feedlot, and several great horned owls close to the creek.

By the time we’re done birding for the day, it’s mid-afternoon. We haven’t managed to count every single bird in the LaValle Creek area – but between our two teams, we’ve done our best. The Missoula CBC isn’t over yet, though. From LaValle Creek to Kelly Island to McCauley Butte and beyond, teams of birders have been in the field today, combing Missoula for winter birds. What remains now is to tally up the results.

Comparing notes

Some groups just send their lists to Larry Weeks, the count compiler. Others of us show up at his house in the evening for the CBC potluck. To me, this is one of the best parts of the day. It’s a chance to hear about the surprises everyone has found, consider how this year stacks up against others, and enjoy the company of other bird lovers.

At the potluck I see Don Jones, an excellent birder and wildlife photographer from Troy, Montana, who I last saw  seven or eight years ago on the Troy Christmas Bird Count. He’s taking part in five CBCs across western Montana this week. Today, his group birded the area around McCauley Butte. One of their most surprising sightings was a blocky-headed raptor that appeared to be a Cooper’s hawk – an uncommon sighting during the winter. A much-smaller sharp-shinned hawk was dive-bombing it.

As the evening progresses, more surprises trickle in. Jim Brown reports finding a short-eared owl. One group found a marsh wren at Council Grove. Common redpolls, those arctic finches that can be abundant in some winters, were sparse today. But the group that checked Kelly Island found 12 of them there.

Winter finches appear to be down this year. No one tonight reports seeing Cassin’s finches, pine siskins, or pine grosbeaks. And between all of our groups, we’ve found just a few dozen red crossbills.

Conifer cones and other conundrums

Why? Don Jones reports that northern Canada is heavily loaded with cones right now, and the Finch Research Network confirms that the bumper cone crop is widespread in that area. The Canadian spruces look brown under the weight of their seeds. Don says that the trees there are loaded with white-winged crossbills. So is the scarcity of finches here related to better food supplies to the north? It seems very possible.

Larry Weeks is still waiting on a few more bird lists before he’ll be able to finalize the CBC results. But soon, we should know how this year’s CBC compares to almost 50 years of these counts in Missoula.

How are our birds doing? Are there less of them around than there were ten years ago? It turns out that questions like these are difficult to answer well. Bird populations don’t just trend smoothly up or down – they typically fluctuate from year to year, sometimes wildly.

Is it the cold and snowy winter we’re experiencing? Is it the availability of conifer cones or other food sources? How much has the day’s weather changed our counts? How many birds have we missed because we haven’t looked in the right places or listened closely enough?

Decades of Christmas Bird Counts

In short, counting birds is complicated. But since 1976, teams of experienced birders have been going out once a winter to conduct the Missoula CBC. It’s one of our best sources of data on our winter bird populations. And it’s especially important for the northern birds like American tree sparrows and common redpolls, which spend the summers in remote, hard-to-access areas. So how are our birds doing? Christmas Bird Counts like this one, conducted year after year for decades, will help us answer this question.

And in the meanwhile, we’ve gotten to spend a day with all three of our winter nuthatches. We’ve climbed above the foggy LaValle Creek valley and watched a hairy woodpecker sound impossibly large. We’ve gotten to see chickadees harvesting knapweed seedheads, and wondered whether dark-eyed juncos are doing the same. And we’ve gotten to be part of something much larger: a continent-wide search, involving thousands of volunteers, to check up on the health of our mid-winter birds. Whatever the answer, it’s fun to be part of this.

The post Counting the birds of LaValle Creek in the fog appeared first on Wild With Nature.