Just when you think you’ve got things figured out, Mother Nature pulls a prank.
April 1 was a particularly nice day. The temperature was a balmy 62 degrees when I woke up, though I didn’t know it until I stepped outside to fill the feeders and was brought to a stunned halt by the warm, humid air on my face. The peepers were in full voice, woodcocks were singing, and a barred owl even called out from the southern woods. It was one of those days when it was physically painful to turn my back on the wild world and go to work.
Later that afternoon, work done, I was able to get back out on my porch and spend some time enjoying the weather. Isolated dark rain clouds were moving across the sky, and one of them actually passed over the house, but I refused to give in. I grabbed the big deck umbrella and continued logging my notes in my journal as the rain pattered on the green fabric above my head. I did notice, however, that the serenity of the morning had been replaced by a boisterous, energetic feel to the atmosphere. Something was cooking.
I awoke on April 2 to find a much more seasonable scene outside. It was overcast, 37 degrees, and it looked like a day for April showers. The temperature climbed into the 50s as I made my way to Amherst to visit my parents. Everything seemed normal as we headed to Bub’s BBQ for a predictably outstanding meal. Everything seemed normal when we drove home and headed off to bed.
Sunday morning, however, was not so normal. It had started snowing overnight, and when I woke up the temperature was hovering at 32 degrees and the world was being frosted with big, wet snowflakes. I made sure to get out before the snow got too deep and I managed to find some beautiful images. Down in the ravine behind my parents’ house, where a small stream flows, I found a wonderful colony of skunk cabbage plants.
I had cut a hole in the corner of a large Ziploc bag and put my camera inside to protect it from the wet snow, but it was dark and I hadn’t really outfitted myself with the proper footwear. As a result, the steep slope of the ravine was rather treacherous and I quickly retreated. Back by the house, I found the blue blossoms of some spring beauty plants poking through the snow. These flowers, which had no doubt been coaxed out of hiding by the warm weather just a few days earlier, stood out in gorgeous contrast against the white background.
I was not prepared for a snowstorm. Had I been at home, I would have put on boots, a heavy wool shirt and fingerless gloves, and would have been able to get down on my belly and roll around in the snow in an effort to get certain shots I saw. But that remained just a whimsical idea as I continued my retreat. Coffee and company were waiting for me inside, but I had a plan for photography brewing in my head as well.
My parents have a large glass door that looks out onto their back porch. Properly positioned, I could sit next to an old foldout desk and have a place to set out the aforementioned coffee and an extra lens. More importantly, I would be about 12 feet from the porch railing and a strategically placed pile of birdseed was sure to attract some attention. So I set up my monitoring station, placed an offering on the railing, and commenced my wait.
The first bird to arrive was a Carolina wren. I was thrilled, but I wasn’t really in photographer mode just yet. The heavy cloud cover and the early hour (it was still only 6:30) conspired to make photography a challenge. It was dark, the bird was vigorous in its examination of the food, and I failed to get “the photo.” Oh well, I had hours of waiting time ahead of me.
Next to arrive was a male house sparrow. I have to admit that even as the voice in the back of my mind booed and hissed at the bird, my eyes admired it. If you forget the fact that house sparrows are an invasive species that cause all sorts of problems here in North America, they really are quite beautiful to look at. This particular male had a nice dark bib and the lighting that had made wren photography so difficult actually made the colors of the sparrow rich and luxuriant. It also helped that I had finally gotten around to adjusting the settings on my camera to better suit the conditions outside.
For the next hour, I enjoyed myself as one new species after another arrived at the porch railing. Female juncos stopped by, as did male brown-headed cowbirds, blue jays, titmice, chickadees and goldfinches. The shutter clicked and the increasing brightness made the photos turn out better and better with every passing moment. I had to get up and replenish the birdseed from time to time, but I never put out too much. I wanted to keep the birds coming close and I wanted all of the activity to unfold in view of my camera.
It wasn’t until about an hour after I had taken my seat that I saw a bird that really got my attention. By this time, there were other people awake and I was occasionally chatting with them as I sat by the window. In mid conversation I happened to glance out at the railing and that’s when I noticed a chipping sparrow in the snow. What the what?
Chipping sparrows usually show up in April, but my personal experience has been that they show up in the middle of the month. As I sit and write this column, I just checked my handy dandy Mass Audubon checklist of the birds of Massachusetts and I see that chipping sparrows are rare winter birds that are found in Plymouth County and south to Cape Cod and the Islands. What was a chipping sparrow doing in Amherst?
Well, that’s the kind of year it’s been. The same warm weather that had me sitting out under an umbrella two days earlier had no doubt coaxed this chipping sparrow into migration mode. And then Nature turned on us! The largest snowstorm of the season dumped on our heads, temperatures fell to 8 degrees, and I am forced to wonder about those green plants. Did they survive? What must the peepers be thinking this morning? Living in New England is never dull.
Next week I shall regale you with my plans for an upcoming trip to Florida, and then I will have to go through everything I actually saw after that. But somewhere along the way, I have to continue my story of the Carolina wrens. I sat by the window for more than three hours before they returned, and what a display of togetherness and affection they put on. You’ll definitely want to hear this one.
Bill Danielson has worked as a naturalist for 20 years. In that time, he has been a national park ranger, a wildlife biologist and a field researcher. He currently works as a high school physics and biology teacher. His Speaking of Nature column runs weekly in The Recorder, except for the first Monday of each month, which is when his Kids and Critters column for young readers appears. To contact Bill, or to learn more about his writing, visit www.speakingofnature.com. Like Speaking of Nature on Facebook.