The Wrack

One April long ago, my ornithology instructor took our class to Bowerman Basin to view an annual sandpiper spectacle he helped discover and document. Dr. Herman delivered us to an enormous flock of shorebirds and, as science students "seeking patterns in nature," charged us with tallying them.

"How do we count such a huge flock of birds?" we asked the sage.

"Count the legs and divide by two," was his wisdom.*

Ever since, I've strived to get good looks at bird legs whenever I've got binoculars in hand. No, I'm not counting them; I'm checking them for bands. Steve also taught us the value of studying birds as individuals and as populations — and how both approaches are aided by a scientist's ability to identify specific birds reliably. To do that requires marking them and legs are the go-to appendage.

Warning: Mildly graphic images of wildlife below

Thanks to a couple of observant walkers, the Wells Reserve education programs will soon have a few new props to teach about our feathered friends out on the trails and along the beach. Last week, I received the bodies of a common murre and a red-tailed hawk that had been found dead: the murre found by volunteer-extraordinaire Stu Flavin along a beach during his morning dog walk; the hawk by a Reserve neighbor strolling through the woods. It’s always sad to see wildlife that have passed, and with these two birds the cause of death was unclear, though likely natural as they were found in their respective habitats. The silver lining for me is that they can live a second life as teachers, educating the public about their amazing adaptations and encouraging a deeper appreciation for their role in our natural world.

My tight-timeframe Wednesday birding routine started in March and carried on through December. Over that span I missed 7 mid-week morning appointments with the birds, but still completed 33 checklists accounting for 61 species.

Starlings were evident on 20 surveys, crows turned up on 19, and a handful of species appeared 11 times: robin, bluebird, a sparrow, and goldfinch.

A scissor-tailed flycatcher spends a few hours along the Muskie Trail.

The following was published in the Biddeford-Saco Journal Tribune Sunday edition, 6/1/2014.

My son and I were simultaneously awakened at 4am this past Sunday by the call of the wild. At first we heard what sounded like a howl, but then as the fog of sleep cleared, the noise resolved into the distinct calls who-cooks-for-you, who-cooks-for-you-all.

Mornings, driving in, Laudholm welcomes me. I loop in to park, take two bags in one hand and binoculars in the other, step out, push the car door shut, and lock it. Already I'm attuned, scanning, panning the landscape, listening for caws and chips.

Most days I'm rewarded. It's a long walk from the parking lot to the farmhouse door and the reserve is famously rich in bird life. With its grassy expanses, ancient hedgerows, mixed woodlands, and the estuaries just beyond them, it's a rare day when no bird moves or speaks during the pedestrian part of my commute.

Four weeks ago, I added a twist to my routine. Every Wednesday, I'd measure my walk — both length and time — while logging each avian encounter. Then I'd submit my checklist to eBird, where it can be stored and shared.

Once invasive species get into an ecosystem, it's nearly impossible to get them out.

On December 16th, Suzanne called my office from her car on Laudholm Farm Road to alert me that she had spotted a Canada goose who seemed to be acting strange. The goose had been on or near the road as Suzanne drove by, and when she did it flew into the air, seemed to hesitate as another car approached, and then landed in a bush. When I arrived, the goose remained very still in the bush, only moving to peer at us cautiously. After a call to the Center for Wildlife in Cape Neddick, we decided the goose's behavior was suspect enough to bring her in to the experts.

Snowy Owl. You don't need to be a binocular-toting bird nut to bring this beast to the mind's eye. With the words come the impression: Big, white, stately, broad-faced, and with piercing yellow eyes. Awesome.

We're lucky in Maine. Snowies appear here just about annually. But this winter is something special.

Master bird bander June Ficker and her crew wrapped up the summer season at the end of August. June recently shared her summer wrap-up and we're happy to pass along these facts and highlights for 2013…