Northwest Nature Log: Celebrating the first bird of 2016

Published 9:37 am Tuesday, January 5, 2016

The morning of Jan. 1, 2016, dawned blustery and cold — and dark. Most of the Peninsula was without power due to a huge tree falling across the lines on Sandridge. This definitely put a damper on fresh, optimistic feelings for the new day, let alone the new year.

As I grumpily began to carry out my morning tasks, I thought about the tradition of seeing the first bird for the new year. I wondered if any birds would be foolish enough to be out in the maelstrom that was howling through the shore pines and bare alders in the yard. Nevertheless, I bundled up and went out to the garage to get the feeders. I automatically hit the “open” button for the big garage door before realizing that was not going to happen. Grump grump. Feeders in both hands, I backed through the small door to the outside. The wind caught me immediately and blew right through my heavy coat.

I didn’t hear a peep or chirp anywhere as I headed for the thicket of salal and rhodies where the big old shore pine provides cover for small birds, and where I hang the feeders. As I looked up into the pine for the hanger, there perched my silent crew, waiting for breakfast. I think I saw the chestnut-backed chickadee first, then the black-capped, then the nuthatch, then a slew of juncos below zipping through the underbrush. They were so quiet! I think they were just focused on getting to those sunflower chips. Completely fluffed out, heads pulled in and feet almost covered in soft feathers, they were enduring the storm. I didn’t even step back before they were in the seed and on the suet. The juncos waited on the ground for fallen seed, so I gave the feeder a good shake to give them an extra bonus.

The morning was so much better now. As I looked up to hang the feeder, I saw the moon sailing high and pale in the sky. Below me, the juncos were closer than usual to my feet, intent on the fallen seed. I admired their lovely black hoods and satiny gray backs.

I had hopes that my first bird of the year would be the astounding Townsend’s warbler that has been hanging out with the usual crew. He is a tiny, brilliant combination of yellow, black and white, and is quite confiding when I approach the feeder. (“Confiding” is kind of an odd word used by birders which means that the bird will let you approach more closely than usual without becoming apprehensive or flying quickly away. Once it happens to you, you can see how the word does fit.)

Anyway, he wasn’t around this particular morning. I took a look at the hummer feeder but he wasn’t there either. Townsend’s warblers have such small bills that they can drink from a hummingbird feeder if one of the yellow wasp guards is left off. I see him there occasionally, the bossy Anna’s hummers having a fit trying to scare him off. He’s just big enough to ignore them.

Townsend’s warblers breed in the far northwest part of Canada and Alaska and winter all along the Pacific coast, as far south as southern Mexico. They are a bright light in our dark winter days. I’m not familiar with the Townsend’s song, so I looked it up in a bird guide, and it was especially charming: swee, swee, swee, sweezil. I so much want to hear that sweezil part.

Feeling much more cheerful, I went to the side yard and there were all the ducks, anxiously waiting for their corn. And not quietly. Their loud murmur could be heard over the howling wind and it got noticeably louder when they saw me. They threw caution to the wind and were walking on my boots as I moved across the yard tossing corn.

Such sweet omens for the coming year. Optimism and perseverance and cheer. I know I will see the Townsend’s soon and will add him to my special new year’s list. For now he can fall into the category of hope.