Outdoor Calling

Savannah Sparrow

Savannah Sparrows (Passerculus sandwichensis) are one of the most numerous and widespread songbirds in North America. Having seen one on a Maine island in fall and a month later others on the California coast, widespread is a good descriptor.

They’re also described as “inconspicuous, but common,” and “understated, but distinctive” by experts like the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. I might describe them as “yet another streaky, little brown bird,” except the yellow by their eyes (and the Merlin Bird ID app) helps them stand out from all the other brown, streaky sparrows.

You’re most likely to find Savannah Sparrows in open fields, grassy meadows, and marshes, hopping and flying around in the grass and shrubs, like I did near California’s Point Arena Lighthouse in October. They also have a buzzy, insect-like song. If you’re lucky, one might fly up from all that thick grass and shrubbery to perch on a fence or wire, like the sparrow above did so prettily, leading me to create this page just to show it off in its understated distinction.

I’d forgotten about it until I saw that picture yesterday and was transported back to this moment, with this bird. It was a good moment. And bird.

Savannah Sparrows are found in open country, including fields and pastures.
*(Point Arena Lighthouse, California, October 2022)*

You’re most likely to see one down low, on the ground or in grasses and shrubs. (Beware of mowing or haying fields before their young have fledged.)

Blending into the scene *(Bodega Bay, California, October 2022)*

Taking a migration pitstop on its way south *(Monhegan Island, Maine, September 2022)*

The first Savannah Sparrow I saw was on a local trail in spring. That yellow by the eye tipped me off that this was a different sparrow, and thus the Savannah Sparrow became #129 on my Bird Life List.
*(East Kennebec Trail, Winslow, Maine, April 2022)*

Anna’s Hummingbirds

Anna’s Hummingbird (Calypte Anna) | October 2022 (San Mateo County, California)

Anna’s Hummingbirds are among the most common hummingbirds along the Pacific Coast. But common is relative. Last October, while I was visiting family in the Bay Area, my brother tipped me off that hummingbirds regularly visit his patio water fountain. So, this New Englander was excited to see several Annas dipping, darting, drinking, and bathing in the early morning light the next day.

I happened upon these Bay Area backyard birds pics while organizing computer files this week, and they got me thinking about what the idea of backyard birds means—to a region, an environment, a person. I’m used to seeing birds in a rural Maine yard with certain trees and plants, but that’s just one view among vast possibilities. Even in urban areas you can attract and support birds. A few native plants and water can be big draws, and much appreciated, in small spaces (like outdoor patios).

Back in the fall when I took these pictures I was focused on seeing these mostly new-to-me birds. But wait…hummingbirds, goldfinches, sparrows, nuthatches, phoebes. In retrospect, the list of birds I saw in this one patio sounds remarkably similar to what I’d see in my backyard at home, thousands of miles away. Just a bit different in names and faces. All common and uncommon. Same and different.

Wild Turkeys: An American Success Story

The Wild Turkey doesn’t get a lot of love outside of November, despite being one of the largest and most distinctive birds in North America. Often associated with big meals and handprint drawings, versus beauty and birdsong, its name is even slang for being foolish or a failure. Unless you’ve been terrorized by one, you may not pay the turkey much mind.

For a bird that’s one of America’s most successful conservation stories that feels, well, foolish.

It may be hard to believe if you regularly see flocks in fields or aggressively roaming your neighborhood, but the Wild Turkey (Meleagris gallopavo) was at risk of becoming “as extinct as the dodo,” as Gaston Fay wrote in an 1884 Harper’s Weekly piece. Before European settlers arrived, millions of native wild turkeys lived in North America. By the 1600s, due to unrestricted hunting and habitat loss, they were disappearing from New England; the last ones were recorded in the region in the 1800s. Numbers continued to drop across the country (despite Fay’s 1884 warning), and by the 1930s as few as 30,000 to 200,000 wild turkeys remained in the entire United States.

So, from where did all the turkeys we see today—in woods, in fields, along roadsides, in backyards, and even on city streets—come from? An act of Congress.

Signed by Franklin Delano Roosevelt, the Pittman–Robertson Wildlife Restoration Act of 1937 imposed an 11 percent tax on firearms, ammunition, and archery equipment with proceeds distributed to state governments for wildlife management and habitat protection. The act continues to fund state projects today.

Some of these funds went to capturing and transferring wild turkeys for reintroductions across the country. In Maine, where I live, attempts to reintroduce the birds started in 1942. However, it wasn’t until 1977 and 1978, when the state’s Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife obtained 41 turkeys from Vermont and released them in the towns of York and Eliot, that they began to reestablish. Turkeys from those populations, plus some from Connecticut, were later trapped and released in other Maine counties to further their spread.

And spread they did. With the help of similar programs across the country, wild turkeys went from nearly disappearing a century ago to recovering and now occurring in every state in the Lower 48. In fact, they recovered and adapted so well that turkey-human conflicts in urban and suburban areas inspire tips for dealing with aggressive turkeys. (Most important: do not feed wild turkeys.)

Turkeys can inspire a range of feelings: amusement, interest, frustration, indifference, hunger. I find turkeys, like this unconcerned flock I photographed a few weeks ago, oddly beautiful and captivating. Their feathers can be radiant, their tiny heads remind me of dinosaurs, and in this time of mass extinction it’s remarkable that in my 40-something lifetime, turkeys have gone from nearly wiped out to thriving. Across the country there are estimated 7 million turkeys today.

It may not be conventionally beautiful, but the wild turkey is an everyday example of conservation success, and it’s strutting around right in our own backyards.

National Success? Yes. National Bird? No.

Ever heard that Benjamin Franklin wanted the turkey to be the national bird of the United States? Not quite. While Franklin did praise the turkey as “a bird of courage” and a “true original native of America” in a 1784 letter to his daughter, he never suggested it be the national bird. The Great Seal of the United States had already been adopted in 1782. Franklin simply didn’t like the Bald Eagle, “a bird of bad moral character” and “a rank coward” too lazy to fish for itself. In fact, Franklin was specifically complaining to his daughter about an emblem on a Society of the Cincinnati medal, and he was not displeased that its eagle looked more like a turkey, as it was “a much more respectable bird.” Read the letter.

More Turkey Talk:

Spotted Sandpiper

#157 bird spotted was the Spotted Sandpiper (Actitis macularius)

First seen: September 6, 2022 (Kennebec County, Maine)

I felt lucky to spot this immature sandpiper foraging for invertebrates along a nearby stream last week. For two days it was continually bobbing, hopping, and teetering along the shoreline and underneath a small dam—and then it was gone. The most widespread-breeding sandpiper in North America, the Spotted Sandpiper (aka teeter-peep or tip-tail) winters from very southern United States, throughout Central America, and down to South America.

When I see a new bird I’ll look up species info (thank you, @cornellbirds), but while range maps are helpful, I always wonder about that individual bird and its specific journey. I want to ask: Will you stick to the coast or cross large bodies of water? Where will you stop and spend your winter? The Caribbean? Costa Rica? Peru? Will you pass by this spot again next year? Will I spot you?

Fun Facts: Spotted Sandpipers switch up typical bird gender roles. Females establish and defend territory, and can be monogamous or polyandrous, mating with up to four males, each of which then cares for a clutch of eggs. Males take the primary role in parental care, incubating the eggs and taking care of the young. Baby sandpipers are able to feed themselves after hatching.

Save Our Moose

Millie the Moose (2021-July 2022)

Millie the moose died last month, just two weeks after I shared her picture on Instagram as a Belgrade Lakes celebrity. The first social media reports were that while swimming across Great Pond’s Mill Stream she was hit by a speeding boat and left for dead. People were heartbroken, angry, sad, infuriated. Pitchforks were figuratively sharpened online. As sad as I was about the moose, I increasingly worried someone might come to harm in retribution.

Days later the Maine Department of Inland Fisheries & Wildlife reported that Millie showed no signs of trauma or injuries, so was not killed by a boat strike, though they were investigating the matter. More feelings and strong words followed—at those some thought overreacted or jumped to conclusions, at the game wardens for repeatedly saying the moose was fine all summer, when maybe she really wasn’t, at grief for her loss. Lest you think I’m being dramatic, it made the newspaper (“Death of Millie the moose causes stir in Belgrade”).

Initially I was heartbroken to think someone recklessly hit her and left her floating in the stream. It was a horrific visual. I was somewhat relieved to hear Millie, who was probably a year old, may have died of natural causes, though we still don’t know what those causes were. The first scenario meant someone careless was to blame. The second scenario mean there was no one to blame, well, not one individual.

Maine’s moose are in trouble—but the problem is parasites and climate change, not speeding boats. With warming climates, parasites and diseases expand in range and have greater impacts. Enter the winter tick. Shorter winters mean one moose can be inundated with tens of thousands of winter ticks. All those blood-sucking parasites can cause our largest land mammals to bleed to death, especially calves. Last winter the Maine Department of Inland Fisheries & Wildlife collared 70 moose calves to track in remote parts of the state; 60 of those calves were dead by spring due to winter ticks. That’s a record 86% death rate.

On top of that, moose also face a brain-worm parasite spread by white-tailed deer. The deer aren’t affected, but in moose it leads to neurological problems, abnormal behavior, even death. It’s brutal.

Maine has the densest population of moose in the country. Could we lose our iconic mascot due to something as small as winter ticks? Many of us want “someone” to “do something” to fix it. But what is that something? Who is that someone? More important than blame, how do we keep the moose population healthy?

No one has officially reported what killed Mille. However, observers had worried about her looking starved, stumbling, “not right” and reported their concerns. Regardless of their differing theories, people cared about this individual moose, and that’s a good thing. It’s just a lot easier to point fingers about who’s responsible for one moose than figuring out how to save all the moose.

The Department of Inland Fisheries & Wildlife does have a plan for the winter tick infestation. It entails increasing hunting in certain areas to kill more moose and reduce their population densities. Sounds counterintuitive, but you can read about it on their website. Will this work? I don’t know. As much as I dislike the idea of killing more moose, I hope so, or that it at least slows the rate of loss until “someone” comes up with something better.

Biologists, conservationists, and nature lovers around the United States and Canada have been considering non-lethal ways to save moose populations—biopesticide fungal spores that kill tick larva, food with tick-killing medication, drones with medicine, paintball guns shooting pesticides, and so on—but no practical treatments have been found yet. You cannot pull tens of thousands of winter ticks off each individual moose.

People cared deeply about Millie, their local moose. I witnessed a woman from New Jersey finally see her first moose after decades coming to Maine. “You don’t know what this means to me,” she said after. I thought she might cry. For all the drama and uncertainty surrounding Millie’s life and death, she brought genuine joy, and that is a rare thing.

Now, if only we can channel that collective joy, grief, and concern into action and find solutions to save our moose. That would be a worthy legacy.

_{(top picture taken with 600mm zoom from a very nice couple’s back deck; bottom picture taken with 600mm zoom from road}₎

Further Reading:

Winter ticks wiped out nearly 90% of the moose calves scientists tracked in part of Maine last year (Maine Public Radio)
Maine Moose and Winter Ticks and Moose Species Info (Maine Department of Inland Fisheries & Wildlife)
Effects of Winter Ticks and Internal Parasites on Moose Survival in Vermont, USA (The Journal of Wildlife Management)
Naturally Occurring Fungi Could Curb Moose Tick Plague, UVM Entomologists Find (The University of Vermont)
Parasites that thrive in a warming planet are killing Minnesota’s moose (Vox)

Showing Up to Work: Lessons in Composition and Craft

Until recently, the last—and only—photography class I ever took was back in the ’90s in high school. To put that in perspective, I mainly recall learning how to use a darkroom. Working in the dark with chemicals to make pictures magically appear on paper was fun, but in the decades since I’ve had a sneaking suspicion I have a lot left to learn.

So, I got up my nerve and signed up for a one-week online class through Maine Media Workshops earlier this month. The night before our first workshop found me searching for 10 shots to represent my work and share for discussion, and wondering if out of thousands of pictures I’d taken recently none were good enough.

Of course, this was why I signed up, and in the end, the class was a small, lovely, supportive group who met for a few hours each day. I entered expecting to learn how much I didn’t know about photography technique, but the opposite happened. I realized (well, was told) I already knew how to use my camera to take a picture. Instead, I ended up rethinking what I wanted to compose and craft, spending more time looking for the light (or lack of), pushing myself to try new angles and consider my options, allowing more room for creativity—which all makes sense since the class was “Composition and Craft.”

For homework every day, which I did at home, mostly in my yard, the process generally went like this: set out to take pictures in the evening after class/work/family duties, realize it wasn’t working at all because of fading light or feeling uninspired, start to worry that I had absolutely nothing to share with class tomorrow and they would realize I am a fraud, stop to see what I had, decide to try something else, end up with some unexpected pictures to share.

Sticking with the work, even when I felt like I was failing, having to try something else, led to pictures I wouldn’t have otherwise taken.

This Chuck Close quote sums up the process for me:

“Inspiration is for amateurs. The rest of us just show up and get to work. If you wait around for the clouds to part and a bolt of lightning to strike you in the brain, you are not going to make an awful lot of work. All the best ideas come out of the process; they come out of the work itself. Things occur to you.”

I had to have something to show each day, so I ended up with something to show each day.

Here are a few pieces that came out of that work. I don’t know if any are “good” or not, but regardless each one made me think differently, more intentionally, deliberately, and creatively about my photography and how I approach the process going forward. There’s still a lot to learn, but I’ll keep showing up for the process to work and for things to occur.

In Gratitude to Muskrat for His Sacrifice (or Happy Earth Day)

It’s Earth Day, but I’m thinking of it as Thank a Muskrat Day.

I recently was introduced to Muskrat, or rather a muskrat, who lives down the road and swims back and forth in the stream between lakes. I was looking for Mink when I first noticed the trail of water that followed a small face and eyes just above the water surface. Once I figured out what, or rather who, he was I saw him more regularly—swimming under docks, diving underwater with his long tail, carrying up plants to eat on a log.

Shortly after, I started reading Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer, which opens with the indigenous origin story of Skywoman Falling and the creation of Turtle Island*. While I was generally aware of this story, I was surprised and delighted to discover in Kimmerer’s telling that little, unassuming Muskrat is its hero (in my opinion).

At the time, the world is covered in water. As Skywoman falls down to it, she is caught by Geese who place her on top of a great Turtle. All the diving and swimming animals—Loon, Beaver, Otter, and more—take turns venturing into the water’s dark depths to try and bring some mud up from the bottom to create (or recreate) the earth for Skywoman. Some never return.

Only Muskrat succeeds at last, mud clenched in his little hand, and loses his life in the process (no!). The mud is placed on Turtle’s back and the world is reborn as Turtle Island, where we in North America live today. (Thank a turtle today too.)

The story is about creation, but also sacrifice, gratitude, reciprocity…and I kept getting stuck on the magnitude of the animals’ sacrifice and a lack of fairness. True, Skywoman brought great abundance to all through the earth, but my cynical side kept considering the status of our earth today, and tallying up its winners and losers. I wanted to cry out to Muskrat and the others “We’re not worthy!”

Gifts require gratitude though, and I realized I had it backwards. Instead of eco-despairing and focusing solely on what animals, nature, and the earth have lost due to us (a lot), I could focus on their sacrifice and gift, and on gratitude and reciprocity.

“What can we who recognize the debt possibly give back?” asks Kimmerer in another essay. It’s not meant to be a rhetorical question, but an active, ongoing questioning of our actions—what we ask for, what we take, what we give. We need to be equal to the gift, and the creation of earth is an immense one.

Muskrat, Turtle, Loon, Beaver—I had pictures of most of these creation characters (dare I say heros?). Earth Day seemed like a good day to share and honor them as we consider how to repay our debts.

Geese

These geese flew over me in my backyard.
(Note the terrible Browntail Moth nests atop the trees, just waiting to unleash trouble and misery this spring…)

Turtle

Loon

*Three of eight (!) loons I saw one evening last summer. It was the most loons I’ve ever seen at once.*

Otter

Beaver

*No, that’s not a beaver, but I often saw this juvenile bald eagle hanging out on that beaver lodge.*

Muskrat

*Oh wait, check out those paws, claws, and tail.*

Wait—another muskrat! I saw this muskrat by the river yesterday. It swam right towards me as I was leaving and was the last thing I photographed before writing this. So it gets the last word…or picture.

^{*There are various versions of this indigenous origin story, with the central theme being the creation of the earth, or North America, on the back of a great turtle. Check out Kimmerer’s book for her telling. I found The Canadian Encyclopedia informativ}^{e as well. “}^{Turtle Island” is also the name of the Pulitzer-Prize winning book of poetry by Gary Snyder, whom I was lucky enough to hear do a reading once at my college.}

Black-capped Chickadee: Backyard Birb

Black-capped Chickadee (Poecile atricapillus)

Total birb.

Among the cutest and most common backyard birds is the Black-capped Chickadee. This adorable avian is the State Bird of Maine, but it could also be the official bird of my backyard, because this non-migratory bird is always there, no matter the season or weather—rain, snow, sunshine. If I looked outside right now, I would probably see one.

Habitat: forests, open woods, parks, thickets, backyards

Food: Chickadees are omnivorous. In winter their diet is split between animals (insects, spiders, suet) and plants (seeds, nuts, berries); In breeding season their diet is 80-90% animals.

Tip: Put some seed in a feeder (sunflower seeds, peanuts, etc). They’ll probably eat it.

Threats: Populations are stable, but watch out for cats and window collisions

Impressive Bird Stuff I’ve Learned:

Black-capped Chickadees have a complex range of vocalizations, at least 15 different kinds. There’s the namesake Chick-a-dee, but also Fee-bee, contact calls, a gargle (up to 13 syllables in half a second!), and even a snarl (“a rare, intensely agonistic call”).
They cache seeds to eat later and can remember thousands of hiding places.
Their hippocampuses increase by 30% in the fall when more memory is needed to recover all those seeds, and they may use clues like sun compass orientation and landmark information.
They allow brain neurons with old information to die every fall, replacing them with new neurons, so they can adapt to changes in their social flocks and environment.
In winter Black-capped Chickadees can lower their temperature and enter states of torpor to conserve energy.
They’re energetic, curious, and friendly, but I’ve never had one land on me (yet).

A Backyard Banditry* of Chickadees

* A flock of chickadees is called a banditry, because they look like they’re wearing little black masks. Awww…

All photos copyright Alicia MacLeay / Click on any image to see it full size

Seeing Steller’s

Thirty-three hours. Five days. One bird.

That’s how long I spent, over two weeks, trying to see a single bird here in Maine, a Steller’s Sea Eagle—or rather the Steller’s Sea Eagle, the only one of its kind in North America. Each day I missed the eagle, sometimes by minutes, my sunk costs increased, as did my desire to see the bird. At the same time, my low bar for a sighting kept dropping.

I just wanted to see the bird from a distance…please. A brief fly-by would suffice…maybe.

It worked. Or maybe I was just lucky. I saw the eagle twice that day, both times perched more than a half mile away across open water and then flying. I also saw the sun rise from the ocean, a Bald Eagle in falling snow, an adorable Black Guillemot swimming in the bay, and at the end of it all a stunning sunset while sitting alone by the water. It was a good day.

That first moment of finally seeing the Steller’s through my own camera—even on an island a half mile away—was thrillingly better than the previous day’s dusky scope. There it was! Just sitting in a tree. After forty minutes of watching it perched, the bird stretched its wings, took off, and flew down the inlet and past me. This felt well earned.

Context matters. Especially where wild things are concerned.

*Find the STSE above. Bonus birds—Surf Scooters.*

After all, this bird is famous. A LOT of people want to see it, driving and flying to Maine from around the country. While I’m not an obsessive Life List birder (at least I wasn’t), I get that it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. And now that I’ve seen the rare eagle, I don’t want to be a gatekeeper, distancing others from the outdoors and nature.

So, this is also an opportunity to remind myself of ethical birding and wildlife watching: do not get too close to an animal; don’t influence its behavior; if it notices you, you’re too close; don’t flush it and waste its energy. (Most of my pictures were taken at full 600mm zoom and from a half mile or more away.)

I expect most people to fall into one of two camps, to think:

Who wastes days standing around in the cold just to see a bird? Crazy. or
What a cool and amazing bird to see.

I understand both, so I’ll share some thoughts from my five days of searching, waiting, wondering:

First, the ability to spend five (non-consecutive) days looking for a bird is a fortunate privilege of working for myself. That said, I still had to give up some things, rejigger my schedule, but decided I’d remember these days more—especially if I could find the bird.
As the days passed, I wondered if I was becoming a bit obsessed. Was this healthy? Was the Steller’s becoming my white whale? (That didn’t end well for Ahab.)
With time and frustration, one starts bargaining with the fates; Just let me see it once, please.
Or adopting a Linus-Great Pumpkin mindset; I am the sincerest of the eagle searchers; please rise up and pick my patch of sky, Great Steller’s.
FOMO and social media can make it feel like everyone else has seen the bird and spectacularly up close. Not true. Most people I met had not seen the eagle yet; some were stopping by for a quick look and others had been trying for days. I wished most that kids whose parents brought them would see it, or local folks, like the aquarium scientist, police officer, and boatyard workers I chatted with.
Worried about crowds? Go on the coldest weekdays, especially days when no or few eagle sightings will be reported. Most of my 30-plus hours were spent, coldly, standing or wandering around a few areas without many people close by. My double-layer neckie worked well for warmth and as a mask when others were near.
The people I did interact with were kind, courteous, and helpful.
Over those five days, I got to watch and notice numerous seabirds and Bald Eagles.
It is possible, on the fourth day of looking for a very big bird, to walk alone down a dirt road, pass a tree among trees (twice!) less than 100 feet away, in which the largest eagle in the world is perched, and never see or flush it from the dark branches. After realizing this happened, I simultaneously wanted to cry and felt oddly proud of my ability to practically walk to the eagle, but not disturb it. If the eagle sees me, but I don’t see the eagle, does that count for something? (No.)
That still makes me want to cry a little.
Seriously.

*Finally seeing the STSE, way over on that far shore*

It’s easy to scoff at the idea of people wasting time, money, or resources to look for one bird. I asked myself, what was the point? Could I justify this? But people are interested in and drawn to birds. So, I also asked myself, how do we convert that goodwill to actions that value and protect nature?

Supporting the places that advocate for and provide space and habitat for birds is a good start. I made donations In Honor of the Steller’s Sea Eagle to Maine Audubon (in addition to my annual membership) and Boothbay Region Land Trust afterwards. I also bought my annual Maine State Parks pass. Just imagine if everyone who looked for this bird gave a little something.

Also, this Steller’s Sea Eagle might be the ultimate spark bird, converting untold numbers into avian lovers and advocates.

*Yes, that is a bird in the very top of that far left tree.*

*Getting dive bombed by a crow or raven, and not caring a bit*

I’d consider looking for the Steller’s Sea Eagle again—if it hangs around Maine and the crowds retreat. It was exciting to see such a huge, rare bird. (I was going to call it “impressive,” but I think all birds are impressive.) And those five days and thirty-three hours were undoubtedly good practice in patience and mindfulness.

But I’ve also returned my focus to hyper-local, backyard birding out the kitchen window. I still see you, chickadees and woodpeckers! Plus, the very next day after spotting the eagle, while picking my daughter up at school, I was excited to unexpectedly see a Sharp-shinned Hawk fly into a bush. And then the next day a Bald Eagle flew right over our car…

Thoughts and Stories

Savannah Sparrow

Anna’s Hummingbirds

Wild Turkeys: An American Success Story

Spotted Sandpiper

Save Our Moose

Showing Up to Work: Lessons in Composition and Craft

In Gratitude to Muskrat for His Sacrifice (or Happy Earth Day)

Geese

Turtle

Loon

Otter

Beaver

Muskrat

Black-capped Chickadee: Backyard Birb

Black-capped Chickadee (Poecile atricapillus)

A Backyard Banditry* of Chickadees

Seeing Steller’s

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Main Content

Thoughts and Stories

Geese

Turtle

Loon

Otter

Beaver

Muskrat

Black-capped Chickadee (Poecile atricapillus)

A Backyard Banditry* of Chickadees

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